


Trenchcoats and Relative Deductions in Space

by Eltuine



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Crossover, Developing Relationship, F/M, Feels, Gen, Humor, M/M, POV Third Person, Relationship(s), Spoilers, Supernatural Elements, Superwholock, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-08 13:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eltuine/pseuds/Eltuine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John get called in on a case of several young women having unexplained heart attacks, all in the same neighbourhood. While investigating, he runs into a strange, bow-tied man and his two companions, the recently married Amy Pond and Rory Williams, who are also looking into the mysterious deaths. The Doctor believes that the women are having their souls stolen and when he asks Sherlock and John to join him in solving the crime, it's an opportunity that neither can turn down. Things become more complicated when the source of the murders takes a turn for the supernatural, and The Doctor knows of a pair of hunters who would be very helpful to have on hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Mundane Origins

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Superwholock fic, set Post-Reichenbach, though left open enough for whatever explanation Moffat and Gatiss end up giving. It's set between seasons 5 and 6 of Doctor Who, and sort of mid-season 8 for Supernatural. So, if you're not caught up on Sherlock or Supernatural, or if you haven't seen to the end of season 5 of Doctor Who, spoiler alert! I've kept it as canon as possible, given the universe-crossing, but some of the Supernatural season 8 drama isn't included, for both spoilers and simplicity's sake.
> 
> The tension of Johnlock and Destiel will be present, ~~but I haven't decided yet whether to take it beyond tension. If I do, I'll change the rating.~~ Yeah, it's going beyond tension. Rating shall be changed accordingly when the time comes. 
> 
> Estimated length at finish: Novel-ish.
> 
> Beta-ed by the fantastic [Angelassbutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelassbutt), and Beta-ed and Brit-picked by the lovely [Becca](http://ncis-superwholocked.tumblr.com/), to both of whom I owe praise and baked goods.

A young woman stared up towards the ceiling, eyes blank and unblinking. Her hair was feathered out onto the pillow below, her hands were folded peacefully over her abdomen, and she was dressed in a matching set of pyjamas in an alarming shade of yellow.

“Heart attack,” John Watson said, crouched down next to the bed as he examined the corpse, “She’s a little young, but it’s not unheard of. Why is this a murder investigation?” Sherlock Holmes stood by the wall, surveying the scene with his usual cold calculating intelligence. He let out a soft snort of derision, earning a glare from Doctor Watson. 

“Third one this week,” Inspector Lestrade said from the doorway of the woman’s bedroom. John’s eyebrows rose.

“Third one of this age?” he asked. Sherlock was the one to answer him,

“Yes. And third one in this building,” he said, a small quirk at the corner of his mouth indicating his excitement. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If there was one thing Sherlock loved, it was a serial killer. He supposed it should worry him more, living with a man who claimed to be a high functioning sociopath, but John knew Sherlock better than most. The cold, unfeeling exterior was just a front, and while he no doubt enjoyed the intrigue and challenge of a good case, he had proven himself capable of great depth of caring. 

“What we can’t figure out is how he’s doing it,” Lestrade said, stepping into the room, “Or how he’s getting in and out of the flats. Door’s locked, no sign of forced entry. Windows are the same.” Sherlock was now pacing the small bedroom, with his hand in front of his mouth in what John had (privately) dubbed his “thoughtful pose”. 

“He could be a skilled lock pick, or have keys for the building,” he said, eyes darting around to take in every detail about the scene, “I’ll need a list of employees, and I want to be present when you interview the building manager Have you run a tox-screen on the other two yet?” John did his best to avoid mental whiplash as he followed his friend’s train of thought.

“No, not yet,” Lestrade said, “This wasn’t even a case until this morning. They thought it was just coincidence, two young women having heart attacks in the same building within three days of each other. I’m having the bodies transferred to the crime lab. I’ll let you know what we find.”

“Who called it in?” John asked, earning himself a withering glance from Sherlock. He ignored it.

“Neighbour,” Lestrade answered, “She’d come over after five straight hours of the alarm clock going off, and used a spare key to let herself in. She thought the victim had gone out and forgotten to turn it off. I gather they were friends,” Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced when the detective answered his question preemptively, “She’s giving her statement to Donovan next door. You can speak with her there,” Sherlock was already walking out of the room with John following, when the detective called out to him, “And try not to upset her any further, Sherlock!” The consulting detective let out a huff in response, and John knew he was rolling his eyes even though only the back of Sherlock's head was in view. The doctor lengthened his stride to match pace with the taller man as they strode through the main living space towards the hall.

“Any ideas?” John asked.

“Plenty,” Sherlock answered, “None worth voicing without more evidence. She did have a man here last night, though.” John remained silent. John knew Sherlock was aware that his friend would have no idea how he knew that, and so there was no sense in wasting breath asking. He simply waited a moment until Sherlock let out a sigh, then launched into a quick-fire explanation, “Her bed had been moved half an inch closer to the wall within the last 24 hours, judging by the dust, and in several short jerks, judging by the scratch on the floor. She was lying on the rightmost pillow, but the left pillow had a depression in it, caused by a head slightly larger than hers. From the looks of the flat, she’s quite neat, picks up after herself, makes her bed every day – that indentation happened recently. Small crescent-shaped marks on the insides of her palms – nail marks. She had been clenching both of her hands tightly, a common reflex at the moment just before orgasm, probably not self-induced if both of her hands were free. Finally, there was the bear.” Sherlock paused, and glanced over at John, who knew his brow had furrowed at the mention of a bear. “Under her bed. A soft toy. Well-worn, well loved. Not uncommon for women to hold onto such things, sentiment. It had been hastily shoved under the bed to be hidden. She was embarrassed by it. Whoever had come over was not a platonic friend – they would know of the bear’s existence. She had not been expecting the other person, either, but had welcomed him in. Hence, lover.” Sherlock pulled open the front door and strode out into the corridor, leaving John shaking his head behind him, muttering “Amazing,” under his breath. What John couldn’t see was the pleased smile that tugged the corners of Sherlock’s mouth upwards in response to his unabashed astonishment.

 

The young woman in the next flat was obviously distraught. Her blue eyes were rimmed with red, and she was holding a box full of tissues that had been thrust at her after it had become obvious she would need a steady supply. Her blonde hair was rather messy, the result her repeatedly running her hand through it, and she was curled into herself on the couch that dominated the east wall of her living area. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Sally Donovan sat in a chair angled towards her, and was doing her best to stave off the panic simmering just below the surface of the woman’s emotional state. There was no denying that Donovan was good at her job, though John may not have been overly fond of her, what with her vitriolic attitude towards Sherlock. That dislike was made evident once again by the sneer she fixed on the two men when they entered. Since the events with Moriarty three years ago, John had been lumped into the same category as Sherlock – some sort of deviant. The majority of Scotland Yard may have been convinced of its best (only) consulting detective’s innocence, but Sally Donovan’s good opinion, it seemed, was lost forever. 

Donovan rose from her chair, and fixed Sherlock with a glare that might have made lesser men cower. “You make her have another panic attack, and I’ll punch you,” she said, indicating the young woman on the couch, who was looking at the three people congregated in her living room with large, lost eyes. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock said, his voice practically dripping with disdain. John fought the urge to roll his eyes. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to end up with his eyeballs stuck permanently skyward after all the time he spent with his flatmate. It was quickly becoming his most common facial expression. Sally huffed at him, and then swept over to lean by the door, standing guard with her arms crossed, watching for any signs of distress from the woman on the couch. 

John could see the instant that Sherlock changed character. It wasn’t something new – a facade to gain information, trust, or evidence from a suspect or witness was a common ploy the detective used. This time, it seemed, Sherlock recognized the tenuous grip the young woman had on her composure, and had decided that a calm witness would be more helpful than a hysterical one. He crouched down in front of her, hands open and facing upwards in an unspoken gesture of honestly and acceptance.

“What’s your name, dear?” Sherlock asked. John concealed a chuckle at the notion of Sherlock Holmes ever seriously calling anyone “dear” by coughing into his sleeve.

“Sophie,” she answered, her voice small, “Sophie Miller.” 

“I’m Sherlock, and this is my friend Dr. Watson. Is it alright if we ask you a few questions?” Sophie nodded, eyes wide, and Sherlock motioned John over to the couch. He sat carefully on the end opposite from Ms. Miller while Sherlock took the chair. “The woman next door...”

“Annabell,” John supplied helpfully, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t have bothered to learn the victim’s name.

“Yes, Annabell,” Sherlock continued, with a quick glance of gratitude towards John, “Do you know if she had a boyfriend? A lover?” Sophie shook her head.

“No, no boyfriend. She’s not really the boyfriend type.”

“Ah, well, a girlfriend then?” Sherlock asked. Once again she shook her head.

“No, no, I mean, she likes... liked men. She just... she didn’t go out much. She was shy. Guys didn’t usually pay much attention to her.” A small crease formed between Sherlock’s eyebrows as they drew closer together.

“She didn’t mention a date last night?” Another head shake. “Did you hear anything that might have indicated that she’d had a visitor over?” There was a brief pause as Sophie’s eyes unfocused for a moment before she answered,.

“I heard voices, but I thought it was the telly. I don’t know...” she trailed off, and Sherlock was starting to look frustrated. John gave him a look that he hoped conveyed “Be gentle with her, Sherlock.”

“What kind of voices? Male? Female? What sort of tone were they speaking in? Could you hear what they were saying?” Obviously the look hadn’t been as effective as John had hoped. To Sophie’s credit, her bottom lip only quivered for a moment before she answered,

“A man, definitely, and a woman. It- it might have been Anna. I don’t know what they were saying. The- once the bedroom door was closed – I couldn’t hear through the wall. Just when they were in the kitchen. They sounded... flirty?” The last word went up as though it was a question. John chimed in,

“Anna wasn’t a flirty sort of person.” Sherlock flashed him an approving look for his deduction, and he felt the tips of his ears flush. Damn. 

“No, uh...” Sophie looked uncomfortable, “She – I’m pretty sure she hadn’t even ever... y’know...” A faint blush stole away the pallor that she’d had since Sherlock and John had entered the room. Sherlock saved her from further embarrassment, in his own tactless way, by finishing the thought for her,

“She'd never had intercourse.” Sophie nodded, flushing a deeper shade of pink. “And yet she had a man over last night...” Sherlock stood and whirled around, sweeping out of the room in a dramatic billow of coat, leaving John to make his apologies and condolences to Sophie. Donovan remained at the door, obviously less than impressed.

“Such a way with people, that one,” she said. John simply fixed her with a blank stare before following Sherlock back to the victim’s flat. He found him back in the bedroom, speaking with Lestrade.

“...do a rape kit,” Sherlock was saying, “It was consensual, but there may be some evidence that could be useful. I’m going to the hospital. See if you can find the paramedics who brought in the other two. I need to ask them some questions.” Greg was looking put-out, but wasn’t objecting to Sherlock giving him orders. He was as stumped by this as John was. Sherlock turned as John re-entered the room, and then looked back at Lestrade. “And I’m going to need access to records of any other young women in the area who’ve suffered unexplained heart failure recently. Just because it’s the third in this building doesn’t mean it’s only the third.” The Detective Inspector voiced his assent, his mouth a grim line. Sherlock nodded to him in as close to a “Thank you” as he ever would, and then turned back to John. “We have a hospital to visit.”

“Thank you, Detective,” John called back over his shoulder as Sherlock all but dragged him out of the flat. The only response he received was short nod. This was going to be a bad one, he could tell already. 

“Come on, John,” Sherlock said, barely-disguised glee in his tone, “This is going to be a good one!”


	2. Strange Men in Bow Ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John take a trip to examine another victim, and meet an unusual person on their way to the morgue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, spoilers and Reichenbach theories are hinted at. I hope that I`ve done Sherlock justice!
> 
> Beta-ed and Brit-picked by the wonderful [Becca](http://ncis-superwholocked.tumblr.com/) and Beta-ed by the spectacular [Angelassbutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelassbutt). I take any and all blame for typos or other errors.

The staff at the hospital that the second victim had been brought to proved to be less helpful than Sherlock had been hoping. They were all very busy, and only two of the nurses who had been present were working, and even they had nothing remotely useful to add. 

“Right, Maria. She was a cardiac patient,” one nurse (Lana? Laura? Lisa? Lisa) explained, “Found when her flatmate got home from work. Mid-twenties, healthy, slightly overweight. She was young, but it happens sometimes, nothing remarkable about it. We performed CPR for ten minutes, taking over from the paramedics who had done it for twelve minutes, and when she didn’t respond to the adrenaline or the compressions, the doctor declared time of death. Her heart just stopped. Sad, but not strange.” John had listened intently, nodded, and thanked her for her time, but Sherlock didn’t even bother taking it in. Of course they’d performed CPR. That was standard procedure in case of heart failure. She had been looking at a patient, not a murder victim, and was obviously not observant enough to notice any important details.

“Where is she now?” he asked, perhaps more curtly than was polite if John’s frown was anything to go by.

“The mortuary,” Lisa said, “No family has come by to claim her. She’ll be moved to the crime lab soon, I suppose, but it won’t hurt to go have a look.” Amazing, the doors could be opened by an old ID of Lestrade that Sherlock had pocketed several months previous. He thanked her, and then headed in the direction of the lifts that led down to the mortuary in the basement. John did his best to keep pace with him.

“So, what are you thinking?” John asked as they walked. Sherlock was mulling over the facts he had acquired.

“Not enough data yet for any sort of conclusion. Poison, perhaps? He picks his victims from the building, young women, shy, low self-esteem, flattered by any sort of attention. The flats weren’t exactly high-end, so they’re not likely to have security systems...” he trailed off, and they stood in amicable silence while waiting for the lift. That was the thing about John. He didn’t mind silence. This was an important quality for someone living with Sherlock, who’d go quiet for days at a time while caught up in a case. Most people would have found it irritating or disconcerting, but John just sat, pecking away on his laptop, reading some ridiculous trashy novel, or watching some horrendous television. He would even bring Sherlock the occasional cup of tea or piece of toast to keep him fuelled. After his “death,” (or “The Incident” as John had taken to calling it), Sherlock had been terrified to return to Baker street. He had made absolutely sure that it was safe before returning. He had taken care of each of Moriarty’s lieutenants, built a fool-proof case against the man himself, and was prepared to return to life, but he had been paralysed by fear over how John would react to his return. What if things between them could never be the same again? How would he go back to a life without the man who had become his best friend – his first real friend? 

John had been angry. No, angry wasn’t quite a strong enough word. He had been furious, incensed, livid. When Sherlock had walked through the door of the miserable little room that John had moved to and was calling a “flat”, he’d honestly feared for a moment that John was going to make sure he stayed dead. He wouldn’t have blamed him. He certainly didn’t blame him for the two punches he’d received – one to the face, one to the gut – but John had once again surprised him. The man had an apparently infinite capacity to surprise Sherlock, who was very rarely caught off guard. As he’d braced for a third hit, unwilling to return the punches he knew he deserved, he’d found himself being squeezed tightly against the shorter man’s chest. 

“God, Sherlock, Jesus, Sherlock,” John had whispered, “I thought – I just – you’re alive. I knew you could, I just – thank God.” Sherlock, unsure of what he should do (unsure of what John was really trying to say), afraid that any action would result in another fist to his face, had stood stock still, and murmured.

“I can assure you, God had nothing to do with it.” John had started chuckling, and that had transformed to hysterical laughter, and then the laughter had dissolved into sobbing, and the two grown men had held each other, best friends reunited, while tears streamed down both of their faces. (They’d both agreed later to never breathe a word to Mycroft about the tears ).

It took about three months before he'd really been forgiven. The first few days John had swung back and forth like a pendulum, between anger – “How could you, Sherlock? I thought you were dead! I thought my best friend was dead! Do you have any idea how that felt?” – and joy – “I’m so glad you’re alive! You’ve got no idea!” It had taken two weeks of John refusing to speak with him (after discovering Molly had known), four more of an uneasy reforming of their friendship (Sherlock had never tried harder to be thoughtful in all his life) and one night of getting John spectacularly, rip-roaring drunk. Then, things had started to drift back to normal. John started coming along on cases, and then coming by Sherlock's dingy little flat to make sure he was eating. Eventually (upon discovering Sherlock slumped over his microscope, after having given in to exhaustion) John had thrown up his hands and declared “If I'm going to be looking after you again, it would be considerably easier if we were in the same flat!” and that was that.

Mrs. Hudson had cheerfully opted not to renew the lease of the new tenants of 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock had gotten his things from where Mycroft, in a disgusting and unusual display of sentimentality, had put them in storage (sadly, he’d had to buy a new violin. John had apparently smashed his other one on the day after the funeral) and life continued forward. It wasn’t quite the same, mind you. It probably never would be, but it wasn’t a bad sort of different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but Sherlock knew that things were better. 

His musing was interrupted by the soft ding of the lift as its doors slid open. It was empty inside, save for a couple. No, not a couple, Sherlock thought, close friends. The young woman – red hair, leather jacket, married to someone who obviously cared for her very much – was looking at the man, mischief alight in her eyes. The look was returned by the man, who... Sherlock wanted a closer look. He entered the lift, John at his side, and continued to study the other occupants from the corner of his eye. The man was something of a puzzle. His clothing – tweed jacket, suspenders, and bow tie – spoke of someone who would spend his time fascinated by science, history, all of life’s little puzzles, but the boots – sturdy, rather dirty, scuffed on both toes – belonged to a man who spent a great deal of time running, climbing, moving about. Sherlock was still studying the man when John elbowed him in the ribs.

“You’re staring!” John hissed into his ear. Any reply Sherlock would have given was cut off before it began by the other man in the lift.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind! Stare away!” he had a cheery grin on his face, and was holding out his arms as though to give them a better look. “What is it this time? The suspenders? The bow tie? Not the fez. They wouldn't let me put it on.” The woman gave him a look of exasperated endearment – Sherlock had often seen the same from John – and said,

“The fez was ridiculous, Doctor.” She had an interesting accent; Scottish with a touch of Gloucester. John looked embarrassed, but Sherlock had never let that stop him before, so he spoke up,

“Actually, I was trying to figure out what a man who obviously can’t stay still for very long would be doing in a place like London, where the most exciting thing to happen is usually a homicide.” John now had his hand covering his face, and Sherlock could practically hear his inner monologue of “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening” The unusual man simply grinned, however, and asked,

“What gave me away?” Sherlock, never one to miss an opportunity to show off, launched in at full tilt.

“Your shoes are dusty, sand from an arid environment, yet there's mud in the treads, from somewhere damp. You've been in two contrasting environments within a short period of time. The cuff of your jacket has some sort of engine oil on it, indicating that you're a hands-on sort of fellow. The knees of your trousers have faint grass stains, and your boots are showing some cracks at the top of the sole at mid-foot; you run a great deal, and aren't afraid to take the occasional fall. And then there's the small tear over the pocket of your jacket that you keep fiddling with, showing that it's been through a lot. It could be old, but it's not. The seams are still perfect, and the lines, while not freshly pressed, look tidy. Whatever you've been up to has been intense, possibly dangerous, but you weren't frightened or shaken, you're excited, grinning. You can’t stop shifting from foot to foot. It's as though you think everything around you is fascinating. You're obviously a man interested in experiencing as much of the world as he can.” John's ears were a charming shade of fuchsia, but both the red-haired woman and the strange man were looking at him with astonishment and delight, respectively.

“That was quite good!” the woman exclaimed, grinning in delight at her friend. 

“I like him,” the man said to her before turning back to Sherlock, “I like you! I'm The Doctor, this is Amelia Pond, pleased to meet you!” he held his hand out, and Sherlock found himself gripped in an arm-pumping handshake. He'd said “The Doctor” as though it was not a title, but a name. John was also dragged into an enthusiastic handshake as he stammered,

“I- I'm sorry, doctor who?” Amelia smiled as though in on some private joke.

“Just The Doctor. And you are?”

“Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend, John Watson.” Amelia also reached her hand out, and Sherlock knew that John would find it intolerably rude for him not to accept, and so there was another round of handshakes. Ridiculous, really.

“Just Amy is fine,” Amelia said, “And what about me? Any insights?” Sherlock would have been wrong if he'd thought that John's face couldn't go any redder. Fortunately for John (unfortunately for Sherlock) the lift stuttered to a halt at the third basement floor, and the doors slid open, effectively ending the conversation. Sherlock and John stepped out, but weren't followed by Amy or The Doctor. Strange, considering that no buttons had been pressed for any other floors. Something he'd done had caused them to change their minds about following. Yes, that was definitely it – Amy had been prevented from exiting the lift with a gently placed hand and a smiling glance.

“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Sherlock Holmes,” The Doctor said, “Perhaps we'll run into each other again!” This last bit was called out as the doors slid closed, and Sherlock and John were left standing in the hallway, alone.

“Well, that was odd,” John said, breaking the silence. Sherlock nodded, puzzling over the information he'd gleaned during the short trip, and then refocused himself. He had a case. Plenty of time later on to mull over strange men in bow ties. Without another word, he turned and strode in the direction of the mortuary. 

 

The man in charge of the mortuary was a pleasant sort of fellow, if a little distracted, and John gave him a brief word of thanks as Sherlock swept past. Inside was a scene that both he and Sherlock knew well. Several stainless-steel tables dominated the room, surrounding a drain in the centre of the tiled floor. Along the South and West walls were rows of doors, behind many of which lay a corpse. John quickly located the victim – Maria Altimari, 26 – and pulled her out to be examined. Sherlock began checking her over immediately. John, too, looked her over, noting nothing to indicate any cause of death beyond heart attack. It was awful, a young woman's life ended so early. He began scanning over the chart provided to them by the helpful clerk in charge of records from critical. Sherlock, meanwhile, had taken out his pocket magnifier, and was examining the young woman's arms, neck, and hands closely.

“I don't understand...” he muttered a short while later, causing John to look up from where he was reading about Maria's blood oxygen levels at time of admittance (low, obviously).

“Don't understand what?” John asked.

“There are no puncture marks... no needle holes ...” Sherlock looked far away for a moment, before turning back to Maria and opening her mouth, and then sniffing.

“Ugh, Sherlock, that's disgusting.”

“Do you smell anything, John?” Sherlock indicated the woman's mouth, and John scrunched his face up in disgust. He knew it would do no good to argue, so he leaned in – gingerly – and sniffed at the mouth of the victim. Nothing unusual. A mild scent of ammonia, but that wasn't anything strange for a corpse being kept in a mortuary.

“No, nothing,” John said, shaking his head. Sherlock frowned.

“Something without taste or scent, administered orally, or trans-dermally” he murmured, whether to himself of John it wasn't clear. “Here, take this and swab the soles of her feet.” Sherlock held out a large cotton bud with a plastic tube on the end – standard issue evidence collection material. He'd been into the forensic supplies again. John did as he was told; pulling the cotton bud down into the plastic and snapping it shut when he was finished. It made sense to swab Maria's feet, as they contained the most sweat glands, and would be most likely to provide them with evidence from her excretory system. Sherlock, meanwhile, had used a similar swab in the woman's mouth, and had then removed a rather large hypodermic needle from his pocket. John caught sight of it and blanched.

“Good lord, Sherlock, you just carry that around with you?” John was awarded with a withering glance for his question before Sherlock turned back to the victim, finding the vein in her thigh with a practised ease that made John feel a little nervous.

“Don't be an idiot,” Sherlock said, “I grabbed it from a cart on our way in.” He pulled back on the plunge and withdrew blood, very slowly. This long after death, the victim's blood was considerably more coagulated than a living person's. “It's likely that whatever the killer used has a fairly short half-life, but we might still find some trace of it, or the compounds of whatever the poison breaks down into. Hopefully Anderson hasn't completely bungled the tox-screen on the girl back at the flats, and I'll be able to get a hold of her blood for my own tests as well.” John nodded.

“Need anything else?” he asked. When Sherlock shook his head, eyes still focused on the dark liquid in the needle, John covered the body back up and pushed in back into the drawer, closing the heavy metal door with a bang. “To Baker Street?” Sherlock looked up, a gleam in his eye that John knew only too well.

“To Baker Street. I've experiments to run!” 

“I better not find anything unpleasant in my tea, Sherlock!” John called after the retreating back of his flatmate, “And no body parts in the fridge this time! Sherlock? Sherlock!” He chased the infuriating man and caught up with him at the lifts.

“Wouldn't dream of it, John,” the detective said with a feigned innocence.

“Right,” John replied, sceptical, and with that, they were off.


	3. Rude Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is stuck on how to proceed with the case, and John has to put up with the subsequent tantrum. A new victim means new information, but Sherlock's not the only one investigating now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-ed by the marvelous [Angelassbutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelassbutt) and Beta-ed and Brit-picked by the fantastic [Becca](http://ncis-superwholocked.tumblr.com/). As always, any errors are typos are entirely my fault.

John was awoken from a strange dream about cheese and otters by the sound of something crashing downstairs. He was immediately alert, reaching reflexively for his rifle, before he realized that he was in his own bed, in London, and that the cause of the noise was not insurgents, but the horrible man he lived with. Rubbing his hand over his eyes and taking several deep breaths to calm himself, he looked over at the glowing red numbers on the clock he kept on his nightstand. 3:17. Well, that was just lovely. He lay back down and fought a brief battle with himself about whether he should go downstairs and beat the ever-loving piss out of Sherlock, or just roll over and attempt to return to sleep. His adrenaline was up, but he would calm down with enough time. He'd had sudden awakenings in the night before, and usually managed to drift back under eventually. His mind was made up, however, when another thud came from downstairs, this time followed by the unmistakeable shatter of breaking glass. 

“Right, that's it,” he growled, pulling himself into a sitting position and flinging off the covers, “I'm going to murder him. I'm going to murder him and use all of my horrible knowledge about murder to cover it up, and no one will ever find me out, because nobody'll miss him once he's gone!” His stomach did a dreadful flip-flop at the memory of a time when, indeed, no one had bothered to investigate the end of Sherlock, but he squashed it back down with anger and more muttering. He shoved his feet into his boots, not bothering with socks, and continued grumbling to himself as he stomped down the stairs. By the time he'd reached the main floor, he'd gotten to the part of his plan where he'd use the great git's violin string as a garrotte, and his thoughts were only encouraged further by the picture presented to him in the living room. 

The toaster was lying on the floor, badly dented, with the casing cracked and falling off of it. Broken glass – a wine bottle, by the colour – was scattered out from the wall that had been the point of impact. Sherlock's microscope was abandoned at the kitchen table, and the man himself was lying backwards on the couch, legs propped up against the wall, head dangling back over the seat.

“Sherlock!” John shouted, “It's three o'clock in the bloody morning! What the hell do you think you're doing?!” He was about to yell some more when he remembered Mrs. Hudson, and tried to bring his voice down to a harsh whisper, “Some of us need to sleep!”

“Oh, don't bother,” Sherlock snapped, waving his hand dismissively, not even looking at John “Mrs. Hudson isn't here. She's gone to spend the week with her sister.” John stood in silence, seething with quiet rage, waiting for an explanation.

“Would you care to explain what the toaster did to warrant being flung to the ground? Or why there's broken glass everywhere?”

“There's broken glass because I threw an empty wine bottle at the wall.” John's hands twitched with the urge to strangle his friend. 

“And why, pray tell, did you throw the wine bottle?” At this, Sherlock pivoted on his shoulders, twisting around in a flash to spring to his feet .

“It doesn't make any sense!” He began to pace, “There's nothing! Nothing in their blood, nothing in their sweat, nothing!” John had figured that this was what it was about. Sherlock had been studying the samples he'd taken and the ones given to him by Lestrade for the past two days, with no results. All this despite the innumerable beakers and vials he'd mixed and tested. John was starting to suspect that poison wasn't a factor. He would almost have believed that they really were coincidences, except that Sherlock had turned up two similar deaths at another complex not two streets from the first: two young women, both dead of heart attacks, both having had recent “gentleman callers”. John understood his friend was frustrated, but that didn't negate the fact that he'd been woken up in the middle of the night by glass breaking.

“Maybe they were killed some other way? Regardless, it's no excuse to go throwing things about,” most of his initial anger had abated, and was being replaced with sleepiness . “Look, I'm going back to bed. You're going to clean this up, and then tomorrow you can buy us a new toaster. Please try to keep your tantrums to a dull roar for the rest of the night.” Sherlock flopped back onto the couch, all drama, but remained mute. John knew that was as close to acquiescence as he would get, so he turned and headed back upstairs. His bed was still warm, which was lovely, and he quickly found himself drifting back to sleep.

 

He was awoken by a jumper landing on his head.

“Come on John, get dressed!” Sherlock called out, hitting him in the chest with a pair of jeans, “There's been another one!” John groaned and attempted to cover his head with the sheets. Perhaps if I just stay quiet and don't move, he'll forget I'm here and let me go back to sleep, he thought. No such luck, it seemed, as the blankets were tugged out of his grasp and off of him with a sharp jerk. “Didn't you hear me? Get up!” John let out a moan and rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes.

“God, Sherlock, what time is it?” 

“Just past half six! Do you need underwear?”John scrubbed his hand over his face, then rolled to a sitting position and put his feet on the floor, ignoring the cracking sounds of protest that his joints made. 

“It is far too early for you to be asking me about my pants. Get out of my room.”

“There’s another victim, John! The crime scene’s fresh! We’ve got to go!”

“Yes! Yes! Alright!” John yelled, probably louder than was necessary. He stood, and bodily pushed Sherlock towards the door. “You get out, I’ll get dressed, and I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes!”

“Five,” Sherlock said definitely. 

“Seven,” John countered. Sherlock nodded, and spun around, marching out John’s door, leaving the poor man to sigh, run his hands through his hair, and start getting dressed.

 

It took John three minutes to get dressed, one to brush his teeth and stop his hair from standing on end (Sherlock decided it’d be best not to mention that he still had a cowlick in the back), and one and a half minutes to scarf down two pieces of bread and jam (while grumbling about the fact that it wasn’t toast). Sherlock did his very best to remain patient for the thirty seconds it took for John to don his coat (he’d worn his boots throughout, assuming that Sherlock wouldn’t have swept up the broken glass – which he hadn’t). Once that was over with, Sherlock hurried them both out the door and to the cab, which he’d called for before going to wake his flatmate. All told, it took them six and a half minutes to get out of the flat, and Sherlock was pleased. Excitement thrummed through his veins as the taxi ambled through early morning London traffic, and he drummed his fingers against his leg (Haydn’s Violin Concerto No. 3 in A). He’d been stuck on this case for days, and now he would have new information, a fresh crime scene, and (with any luck) better forensics than the file provided to him from Anderson. John was silent in the seat next to him.

“Stop sulking,” Sherlock said, without turning his head from the window.

“I’m not sulking,” John muttered.

“You’re angry that I broke your toaster, and then woke you up, so you’re not talking to me. Sulking.”

“I’m angry that you broke our toaster, and that you woke me up by throwing things at me. And I’m not sulking, I’m tired and don’t feel like talking.” There was a pause as Sherlock considered his options. He could ignore John in return (not terribly effective in the past) or move on to a different subject (might make things worse) or he could attempt an apology, of sorts (yes, that seemed the best course of action). 

“I’m sorry that I broke the toaster,” he said, still staring out the window. John sighed, and for a moment, Sherlock wasn’t sure if he would continue being cross, but then he started to chuckle. Sherlock turned his head, raising an eyebrow at his friend’s unexpected mirth.

“God, Sherlock,” John said, “You’re impossible.” One corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up.

“No, merely improbable.” John shook his head, still faintly smiling, and Sherlock relaxed back into the seat. Good, it wouldn’t do to have John cross with him. It made for difficulties in navigating a crime scene. By the time the taxi pulled up at the block of flats where Lestrade had told them to meet him, John was significantly more awake, and Sherlock felt considerably less like he should be doing something to make it up to him.

“Oh, good, freaks’re here,” Donovan said by way of greeting. Sherlock gave her a smile that was all teeth.

“If you’d be so good as to radio ahead to the Detective Inspector, Sally,” Sherlock said condescendingly, and then leaned in towards her and gave a surreptitious sniff. “And give my regards to Anderson. So glad you two worked things out.” She glared at him, and Sherlock let his smug grin show on his face. John sighed as he walked up behind him and pressed a hand against his back, urging him forward.

“You shouldn’t do that, y’know,” his companion said once they were in the building and out of earshot.

“Do what?” Sherlock asked, feigning innocence.

“Bait her. You’ve got enough people who want you dead as it is.”

“Then maybe she shouldn’t be such an insufferable idiot.” John shook his head and turned towards the lifts, not quite fast enough for Sherlock to miss the smile playing on the edge of his lips. His own grin returned, and he stepped happily after the good doctor.

Upstairs, a scene similar to the one from the last flat greeted them: the victim – a woman in her twenties – lay in her bed, hands folded over her abdomen, eyes staring up towards the sky. This time it had been her brother who had found her, and, according to the lividity of the corpse, less than three hours after time of death. The brother in question was crying on the couch, speaking with another police officer.

“I came by to pick her up for church!” he got out between sobs, “When she didn’t answer the door, I let myself in, to go wake her up! And she was just – she was just – she-” his voice caught, and he hid his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. Sherlock made a valiant effort not to roll his eyes. Lestrade waved them over to the bed.

“Andrea Harbell. American by birth, family moved to London several years ago. Same death as the other five.” he said grimly, “No signs of struggle or break-in, no signs of trauma or injury, just a complete heart failure without any apparent cause.” Sherlock’s eyes swept around the room, taking it all in. There was a cross on the wall above her bed, and two... no, wait, three pictures of the Virgin Mary in various places, and what Sherlock knew to be a purity ring rested on the top of her dresser. Religious, then, obviously. Her shelves held a large volume of books about early childhood education, and the diploma hanging above her desk declared her to be a graduate of the University of Sunderland’s teaching program. Again, there were signs that a man had been there the previous night. Not altogether unheard of, Sherlock had seen religious people bend the rules in whatever manner suited them, but it still seemed odd. He was starting to think that the killer may have a preference for (he shuddered internally at the ridiculous, archaic terminology) virgins . Another detail to add to his frustratingly limited knowledge of the crimes. 

“Any sign of her being drugged or intoxicated?” he asked. Lestrade shook his head,

“No, nothing yet. We’re testing, of course, but she seems to be just like the others.” Sherlock bent down to examine her more closely, pulling a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket. He ran his hands over the woman’s neck, looking for any sign of an injection site. Just as with the others, there was no evidence that she’d been jabbed with anything—needle or otherwise.

“Any scratches on her body? Any patches of rash or irritation? Discolouration on her tongue?” He asked, rolling up the victim’s sleeves and checking both arms. It was the same.

“No, nothing. I know what you’re thinking, but there’s nothing Sherlock. No poison. No signs of foul play. It’s as though one moment she was alive, the next her heart just stopped, and she was dead.” Lestrade let out a sigh. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got six neighbours to question, and the press is going to have a field day with this one.” John was still hovering by the door, looking distressed. Sherlock motioned him forward with a wave of his hand.

“Have a look,” he prompted, “What do you see?” As frustrating as it could be to stand back and watch the clumsy machinations of his friend’s brain, he couldn’t help but love the flush of pride he felt every time his friend got something right. 

“Well...” John started off, “Looks like the others... same body position, hands folded over her stomach in the same way. He’s got some sort of ritual or something...” Sherlock nodded encouragingly, and John continued, “Umm... looks like she’s pretty religious. Her brother was here to take her to church, she’s got a cross on the wall above her bed, and a crucifix necklace on the nightstand... D’you figure she was a virgin, too? Like Annabell?” 

“Annawho?” Sherlock asked, pleased that John had been able to figure out that much, “Oh, yes, the victim from three days ago. Yes, I’m almost certain of it. Our killer seems to have a type. Although, really, the concept of virginity is ridiculous in the extreme-” he abruptly stopped talking at the arrival of three new people, just outside the door to the flat. Two men, and a woman, and two of them looked extremely familiar. There was no way he would be able to forget that ridiculous bow tie any time soon.

“Hello!” The man – The Doctor – greeted the officer standing watch at the front door, “I’m The Doctor, these are Amy and Rory. We’re here from the Serious Organized Crime Agency. May we have a look around?” Alarm bells went off in Sherlock’s head. No, they weren’t from SOCA. Firstly, these murders had nothing to do with organized crime or drug trafficking, and if it was a case for Interpol they’d have known by this point. Secondly, and more to the point, the three people standing at the threshold to the flat were not law enforcement at all. The second man – Rory – was married to Amy, and he was some sort of medical professional, if his sleeves were any indicator (they were). Amy, while obviously a tenacious young woman, was clearly not a disciplined authority, and The Doctor (who still had no name) was... still an enigma . The officer at the door looked equally sceptical, but obviously whatever identification The Doctor was showing him checked out, as all three were allowed through. Amy hung back in the main living space, looking around, while The Doctor and Rory approached the bedroom.

“Sherlock Holmes!” The Doctor cried, spreading his arms in the air, a gesture of recognition and excitement. Sherlock hoped fervently that he wasn’t about to be hugged by the man. Fortunately, The Doctor simply continued speaking, “Fancy seeing you here! How’re you holding up?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and then turned to look at John. Mistaking this for an indication towards the victim, The Doctor’s expression quickly became somber. “Ah. Yes. Do we know what’s happened?” Still suspicious, Sherlock spoke with caution,

“It looks like sudden heart failure.” Rory, meanwhile, had gone to stand next to where John was still bent over the victim’s bed. Sherlock watched the interaction through the corner of his eye.

“Rory Williams,” he said, introducing himself to John, “I’m a nurse. Any idea what caused it?” John nodded his greeting – both men now had latex gloves on – and gestured towards the young woman on the bed.

“John Watson, doctor. For all intents and purposes it looks like a standard cardiac arrest, wouldn’t even be unusual if it weren’t the sixth one this age in two weeks within a twelve street radius.” Rory scrunched his face up, bending down towards the victim, checking her neck and arms just as Sherlock had done. Intelligent, then, not a complete waste of oxygen like some forensics “professionals” (mostly those named Anderson). The Doctor also approached the body, a solemn look on his face. From the inside pocket of his coat he withdrew some sort of electronic device – almost a wand or torch of some sort – and aimed it at the victim. With a click of his thumb, the end lit up faintly, green, and it made an unusual whirring noise.

“What is that?” Sherlock asked. He’d never seen or heard anything like it.

“Sonic screwdriver,” The Doctor answered absently, his expression serious as he flicked the device upward and examined it, apparently gleaning some sort of information from the side. “Hmm... not good...” 

“What’s not good, Doctor?” Amy asked, appearing at his elbow. Sherlock felt as though he was going to get whiplash, darting his eyes from one person to the next to the next. Who on earth were these people, and what were they doing at his crime scene ?

“Her life force is gone, completely drained,” The Doctor said, still looking distractedly at the “sonic screwdriver”. “Whatever killed this girl, and the others, it’s as though it’s taken her soul.” Sherlock snorted. This was beyond ridiculous.

“Ah, yes, someone’s prowling around London, stealing the souls of virgins in their sleep,” he sneered, “That sounds exactly like what’s happened.” John was looking at The Doctor as though he thought the strange man mad. Sherlock would almost have been inclined to agree, were it not for the fact that everything about the man – though eccentric – screamed of science and reason. Even his two companions were sane, though obviously deluded. “What exactly are you playing at?” He glared accusingly at The Doctor. The serious look on the other man’s face was a far cry from the absurd grin he’d had on earlier.

“I’m not playing at anything, Sherlock Holmes. There are human lives at stake. More young women will die if we don’t catch whoever – or whatever – is doing this.” That threw Sherlock. He wasn’t making it up. He honestly believed that the little light-up toy he’d pointed at the victim’s body had somehow provided him with information beyond that found by all of Sherlock’s experiments, and that said information was that the woman’s “life force” had been drained. So, perhaps mad after all. Sherlock continued to stare as Amy asked The Doctor,

“What do we do?” Both she and Rory were looking at him expectantly. The Doctor turned his attention from Sherlock, and back to his companions.

“We find who’s doing this, and we stop them .”


	4. Bigger on the Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John follow the Doctor to find out what he's hiding, but neither of them are expecting what they find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's reading! I hope you're enjoying it as much as I enjoy writing it!
> 
> As always, huge thank yous to my phenominal Beta [Angelassbutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelassbutt) and my fantastic Beta and Brit-picker [Becca](http://ncis-superwholocked.tumblr.com/). If you lived closer I'd send you cookies, but for now my undying gratitude will have to do.

John had honestly no idea what was going on. The unusual man from the elevator the other day had breezed in, red-haired Amy and nurse Rory with him, looked around the crime scene briefly, done some sort of scan with a blinking light-pen, and pronounced that the victim’s life force had been stolen. Then, without a word of protest or discussion, all three newcomers had simply taken off again. Now he found himself being dragged along by an agitated Sherlock.

“What are we doing?” John asked, trotting to keep up with the longer legs of his friend, “Why are we leaving the crime scene?” 

“We’re following them,” Sherlock said, his voice hushed. He jogged past the lifts and to the stairwell, “I think they know more than they let on, and they’re definitely not SOCA.”

“How do you know?” John asked reflexively, before he could bite his tongue. Fortunately Sherlock was too busy hurrying down the stairs to spare him a withering look. John had been suspicious, too, but he hadn’t gotten any sort of sinister or serial-killer-type vibes off of them, and that Rory guy had been competent and friendly. 

“I know they’re not SOCA because these murders have nothing to do with organized crime. And why else would they rush off than if they knew something?” John couldn’t fault that logic. He thudded down the stairs after Sherlock; he certainly didn’t miss out on exercise when out on a case.

When they reached the ground floor, Sherlock held his hand up behind himself, and John narrowly missed running straight into it. A finger over his lips signalled him to be quiet, and Sherlock peeked his head out of the stairwell door. John could hear Amy’s unmistakeable accent.

“...know what it is, Doctor?” she was asking. John strained to make out the answer.  
“Not sure. Maybe. I’ll need to run some tests back on the TARDIS. Whatever it is, I don’t like it. It feels off.”

“Off how?” Rory asked, but whatever the Doctor had to say was swept away in the wind as the group exited through the front doors of the building. John and Sherlock both looked around, considering their options. In this, they were always attuned. Whether it was a wordless glance that signalled a suspect, or a slightly more complex collection of hand signals telling one another which direction they would sneak around the building to cut off the person they were chasing, both men were adept at reading one another during a chase. It was no surprise, therefore, when they looked at each other at the same moment and breathed,

“Fire Exit.” 

They thundered down the last flight of stairs, to the basement level, which opened up to the ground at the back of the building. Sherlock checked the door over swiftly to ensure no alarms would be set off by their opening it, and they slipped through and out into the chilly London morning. The wind had picked up, and it was full on rush-hour, which could work either in their favour or against it. On the one hand, they would be less likely to be spotted amongst the crowds and traffic by the trio they followed. On the other hand, if they ended up having to take a car, they could very well end up blocked by an accident or poorly timed stoplights and lose their prey completely. Luck seemed to be on their side, however, as John pointed out the three figures jogging off to the North.

“Right, so, running it is then,” John muttered. Sherlock flashed him an impish grin, which he couldn’t help but respond to with one of his own, and they were off. There was no doubt about it. John may have been a doctor, but this was what he really lived for.

They didn’t end up having to run terribly far, as it turned out. After only a few minutes, they rounded a corner and came upon a paved lookout spot, where the fog over the river was dissipating as it hit land, and which was relatively deserted of people. John was once again halted by Sherlock’s raised hand, and then was swiftly pulled in behind a building with a tug on the collar of his jumper. He let out a strangled yelp that was quickly cut off when Sherlock put his hand over Watson’s mouth. John considered whether or not he should bite him.

“Don’t bite me,” Sherlock whispered, his uncanny observational skills once again making John fear that his flatmate could read minds, “They’ve stopped. We couldn’t afford to be seen.” John nodded, and the hand was taken away. He let out the breath he’d been holding in. 

“I wouldn’t have made any noise at all if you hadn’t tried to strangle me with my own collar!” he hissed. There was no reply as Sherlock ducked down and peeked his head around the corner. Confusion passed over his face, followed by disbelief. “What is it?” John asked. Sherlock stood, and stepped out from their hiding spot.

“Where did they go?” he asked aloud, to no one in particular. They both looked around, trying to spot a flash of red hair or tweed jacket, with no success.

“D’you think they spotted us?” John asked, allowing himself to rest his hands above his knees for a moment, recovering from the running.

“But where would they have gone? There’s nothing here... unless...” John watched Sherlock’s mind work, taking in everything about their surroundings, and working out every possible shadow or cover that the fake SOCA agents could have ducked into. It was only a moment before he said “there” and pointed definitively at a blue phone booth of some kind.

“What, the phone box?” John asked, incredulous.

“It’s an old police box,” Sherlock said, walking forward cautiously as he examined the wooden structure. “They used to be everywhere in London, for people to be able call the police in the case of an emergency, or get a first aid kit, and they had desks inside for officers to use. They started phasing them out in the seventies when they were made obsolete by two-way radio, though there’s one in Newtown Linford in Liecestershire that the police there still use. There shouldn’t be one here. There wasn’t before.”

“Before when?”

“The last time I was here.” John didn’t bother asking for an explanation. Whether it was mapping out new routes over the rooftops of London or keeping in contact with his limitless homeless network, Sherlock had been through most of London on foot, at one time or another. 

“So, what, they’re just... hiding in a phone box? Not terribly clever.” Sherlock was hesitant, not something John was used to seeing. He didn’t answer the question, but approached the outside of the small blue structure, examining the door. “Are they in there? Sherlock?” The detective’s eyes were focused on nothing, shifting back and forth as he went through his quick fire thinking process. Obviously coming to some sort of conclusion, he straightened up, stood in front of the door, and knocked. Wait, that was his brilliant plan? Knock? John could have come up with that one by himself. “That’s it?” he hissed. Sherlock held up a hand imperiously. “Oh, now, you listen here-” John started in, but he was cut off by the door to the box opening, and the Doctor’s head popping out.

“Hello? Oh! Sherlock Holmes! John Watson! How I can I help you?” John knew that the confused look on his face must have been ridiculous, but he didn’t much care at that particular moment. The man was obviously barking, treating the little box as though they were knocking on the door to a house. Sherlock, to his credit, managed to keep a very straight face as he asked,

“Would you care to answer a few questions about what exactly was going on back at the crime scene?” The Doctor looked surprised for a moment, popped his head back inside briefly, and then popped back out.

“Wouldn’t hurt, I suppose. Would you care to come in?” Now John was just absolutely done with this. This man didn’t know anything, obviously. He and his barmy friends had somehow managed to talk their way into an actual crime scene, and now they were playing police officer inside the little blue box. John would have said as much if Sherlock hadn’t quirked a scornful eyebrow and asked,

“Is there room?” With that, the Doctor flung the door open, reached out with both hands, grabbed hold of the lapels of Sherlock’s greatcoat, and hauled him inside. John gave a shout and barrelled in headlong after them.

“Hey! What do you think you’re-” however that sentence was going to finish he would never remember, as he was struck dumb by what he saw. Somehow the little four foot by four foot square outside was massive on the inside. He twisted his head around, darting his eyes from one object to the next, then quickly stepped backwards and outside again. Yes, it was definitely only a little box. Sherlock had walked the whole way around its perimeter. It hadn’t been some sort of strange illusion or facade in front of a miraculously camouflaged building. John stepped back in again, reeling, but wholly unwilling to leave Sherlock alone in the... whatever it was. The Doctor was standing several feet inside, both of his arms spread in welcoming expectation.

“Well?” he asked, “Go on, say it, I love when they say it.” John sputtered for a moment before managing to stammer out,

“It’s different sizes!” A brief look of consternation crossed the Doctor’s face, before the same brilliant smile returned, and he shrugged,

“That’ll do! And you, Sherlock Holmes?” There was a moment of dead silence, and John looked over at Sherlock, waiting for his friend to speak. What he saw was considerably more disturbing than a box bigger on inside than out. Sherlock looked... blank. There was no other word for it. His eyes were open slightly wider than usual, but other than that he was simply staring straight ahead, expressionless, unblinking, mouth closed. It was disconcerting. John rounded on the Doctor.

“What have you done to him?” he shouted. The taller man held his hands up in a gesture of innocence, eyebrows shooting skyward.

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything!”

“You’ve broken him!” John turned back to his friend, and waved his hand in front of his face. “Sherlock! Sherlock? Come on, are you alright?” Sherlock’s only response was the slight sag of his shoulders as he let out a shallow breath. His eyes remained wide, staring straight ahead. John heard someone else walking up behind him, and he spun around, prepared to defend his comrade. Rory was there, holding his hands up as though trying to calm a wounded animal. 

“Doctor Watson, please calm down,” Rory said gently, taking small steps towards him, “I know it’s a lot to take in, I’ve been there.” John glared at him with mistrust, but relaxed his shoulders slightly out of the combat stance he’d taken. Rory took another cautious step forward, and John moved back a little, allowing the other man to approach. 

“Don’t patronize me,” he grumbled, and turned his attention back to Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved. Rory came up and started checking over his vitals, and John immediately switched into doctor mode. He lifted Sherlock’s wrist to take his pulse, while Rory used a small torch from his pocket to check for pupil response. Everything seemed normal.

“Maybe he’s just... Going through a hard reset?” Amy suggested. John hadn’t even noticed her standing back at the large round console in the centre of the room. “You know,” she continued, “Like when a computer needs to reboot.” John would have laughed at that, in a different situation. Sherlock was rather robot-like at times. John began snapping his fingers in front of his friend’s face when, without any sort of transition, Sherlock blinked once, and grabbed John’s wrist.

“Stop that,” he said indignantly. John looked at him with astonishment.

“What the hell was that? What the hell just happened?” he asked, annoyance in his tone.

“I don’t know what you mean.” Sherlock snapped. John’s hand flexed by his side.

“What do you me- ? - you don’t know – That! You! It’s like you just... shut down for two minutes!” Sherlock scowled and looked around restlessly.

“I was... adjusting.”

“Adjusting what?” John yelled, having given up trying to be quiet and patient. Sherlock looked uncomfortable, which increased the anxiety settling in John's gut. Sherlock was the logical, rational one. He believed in science and reason, and what was happening was pretty far from reasonable. Rory quickly retreated back next to Amy. Sherlock didn't answer John's question. Instead, he brushed past poor Watson, and approached the Doctor, who was watching both men with curiosity. 

“How?” was all that Sherlock said, biting the word out like an expletive. 

“How?” The Doctor echoed.

“Yes, how. Explain to me how. How can it be bigger inside than out? How is it possible?” He sounded angry. A small smile crept up the corner of the Doctor’s mouth, suddenly bursting into an ear-to-ear grin.

“I haven’t actually explained it for ages!” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in excitement and running over to the same console by which Amy and Rory were standing. He bent down and started rummaging around underneath, throwing several strange contraptions out behind him and muttering, until he emerged holding two boxes, with a triumphant “Ah ha!” He hurried back over, and gave the boxes to Sherlock, placing one in each hand. The first box was about four times the size of the second. “Now,” he said, “Which one’s bigger?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“This one, obviously,” he said, indicating the box on his left hand.

“Yes, right!” The Doctor exclaimed. Sherlock couldn't have looked more unimpressed if he'd tried, and John scrunched up his brow, trying very hard to understand where this was all going. The Doctor then grabbed the larger box, and ran back to the console. He placed it on a small section that was relatively free of buttons, and tripped back over to Sherlock. “Now which one is bigger?” Sherlock looked him much in the same way he looked at Lestrade when he’d said something rather stupid, and pointed at the box on the console.

“That one, obviously.” The Doctor smiled.

“Ah, but which one appears, from your perspective, to be bigger?” Sherlock looked very sceptical. 

“The one in my hand,” he said slowly.

“Exactly!” The Doctor cried out. Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together for a moment. John could practically see his brain going into overdrive. He squinted, eyes shifting back and forth, obviously trying to work through what had happened. A moment later, with the same unsettled look on his face, he looked up at the Doctor, and said,

“Some sort of... trans-spacial shift?” He sounded as though he couldn't quite believe what he was saying. 

“Yes!” The Doctor yelled enthusiastically, fists thrust upwards in a gesture of excitement, eyes alight. Good god, the man had more energy than a caffeinated six year old. John still had no idea what they were talking about. Neither, apparently, did Amy or Rory.

“Mind explaining to the rest of us?” Amy asked sardonically. 

“Time and Relative Dimension in Space, Amy!” The Doctor said, “Relative Dimension! As long as the outside is kept far enough away from the inside, they fit together! Time Lord technology, at its finest!” John sort of understood it, but now he had more questions.

“I’m sorry, time and relative dimensions in what?”

“In space!” The Doctor said, “It’s called the TARDIS, Time and Relative Dimension in Space!” Sherlock was now looking around, examining every object and bulkhead with wary fascination.

“So...” John went on, “It’s a time machine?”

“Yes!”

“And a space ship!”

“Yes.”

“And you’re...” he trailed off.

“A Time Lord.”

“An alien,” Amy elaborated. 

“An alien...” John repeated. Sherlock looked over, his expression startled, and then shook his head and returned to examining the walls. This was apparently a bit much for the detective to take in all at once.

“A real alien?” John asked, still having difficulty himself in wrapping his head around what was going on. The Doctor nodded proudly. “Why d’you look human, then?” 

“Actually, humans look Time Lord,” he explained. John blinked, opened his mouth to speak, rethought whether he should even bother, and then sighed.

“You know what, fine,” he said, throwing his hands up and just admitting defeat, “Aliens, spaceships, time machines, sure, why not? What about you two?” He turned to Amy and Rory.

“Human,” Amy said.

“Also human,” Rory added, “Though I was also a plastic centurion once.” John knew that his mouth was hanging slightly open, but this was so far beyond the realm of what should be possible that he didn't care. He made a conscious decision, and stopped trying to understand. It had happened, it was happening, and he was fine. Sherlock, however, seemed to be having trouble accepting it all. John was reminded of the events in Dartmoor several years previous, when Sherlock had refused to reconcile his worldview with the notion of having seen a gigantic hound, regardless of what his eyes were telling him. 

“Sherlock?” John asked, approaching where his friend was standing, back to him, hand splayed against the wall. “Are you alright?” He wasn't surprised by Sherlock's answer.

“I'm fine!” he snapped over his shoulder, tugging his coat collar up like armour, and turning back to the others. The Doctor looked concerned. Sherlock strode up to him, a mask of calm settling over his face, and addressed him again. “My question still remains. What were you doing at the crime scene?” How very Sherlock, John thought, covering the fact that he was shaken by shifting the focus onto something else. His concern for his friend began to dissipate as he watched the (relatively) normal Sherlock return.

“Ah, yes, that,” The Doctor began, “Well, the situation was brought to my attention-” Sherlock cut him off.

“You're lying. You had a reason to be there. Why?” Amy looked as though she was going to rush forward to defend her friend, but Rory placed a hand on her arm as if to say “Wait, they can work it out”. 

“Well, if you must know...” The Doctor continued with an embarrassed look on his face, “I went to the crime scene because I knew you'd be there.” This was followed by a slightly sheepish smile. Now Sherlock looked possibly more suspicious.

“How did you know that? And why are you following me?” The Doctor was undaunted by the other man's mistrust, however, as this question was met with another bright smile.

“You're Sherlock Holmes!” he answered, as though that explained everything.

“Your point?” Sherlock asked shortly.

“You're famous! I recognized you in the lift! I had to come and see you at work.” John's eyebrows rose, and he couldn't help but ask,

“Space aliens read my blog?” The Doctor looked over to him, momentarily confused, before explaining,

“Oh, no, famous in the future, I mean, after he's done all the... other stuff. Sherlock Holmes, world's greatest detective, and John Watson, his loyal friend and courageous biographer!” John mulled the information over for a moment, and then broke into a smile.

“I'm famous? In the future?” The Doctor nodded, looking pleased, “Well, that's not too bad, is it Sherlock?” He nudged his friend with an elbow, but the suspicious scowl didn't leave Sherlock's face.

“But why were you here at all? Before, in the hospital, in the lift?” he asked.

“Well, it's a bit of a long story...” The Doctor started off. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as if to say “I've got time.” “Right, well, Amy and Rory here are recently married, and we've already been to a moon made entirely of honey, and narrowly avoided being eaten, which was only partially my fault, and I wanted to show them somewhere else nice that wouldn't have quite so many teeth, so I thought we'd pop by 16th century England for a bit of a romp at the court of Henry VIII, but something went a little... off, and we ended up in the early 21st century instead, and then I saw a newspaper with an article about the third young woman found in that flat building, and it looked familiar for some reason, so I thought that maybe we should look into it, and then we ran into the two of you in the elevator and I decided it was the perfect opportunity to watch the Sherlock Holmes at work!” This extremely long sentence was ended by a deep indrawn breath. Sherlock's brow was less furrowed, and he certainly looked calmer when he asked,

“Familiar in what way?” Once again, typical Sherlock, more interested in the details of the case than all of the other unusual things that the Doctor had mentioned. John wondered if there were other planets made entirely of various edible things. 

“Well, I thought it might have been a Lanterran, they've got a sweet tooth for human souls, but it doesn't really make sense that it would stick with women. They go after anyone. So, I'm not sure anymore. Still looks familiar though. I need better information.” He looked frustrated.

“You and I both,” Sherlock said, a hint of a wry smile on the corners of his mouth. A slow smile began to spread across the Doctor's features.

“I know that look,” Amy chimed in with a mischievous smile of her own, “You've got an idea, haven't you?” The Doctor was smiling brightly be this point, and he clapped his hands and rubbed them together in an expression of anticipation and excitement.

“Yes I do!” he said, and he whirled over to a storage compartment, tucked away under a ramp, leaving Sherlock and John standing together, apart from the others.

“Alright?” John asked quietly, glancing up at Sherlock with an amused smile.

“I will be,” Sherlock murmured back, “I just needed to... compartmentalize. I'll have to go over all of this later, when there isn't a case on.” John gave a small nod.

“I guess it's easier for us idiots to accept things we can't understand.” Sherlock answered with a smile of his own.

“I'll have to have a good second look at some of the more unusual theories of physics later.”

“Maybe you can translate for me as well. You know, dumb it down a little?” This was rewarded with an amused smile and a short puff of breath that John recognized as a voiceless chuckle.

“Oi! You two! Stop flirting, and get over here!” Amy called. Sherlock strode over, with John following with a protest,

“We weren’t – you know what, never mind.” It was always the same story. Everyone assumed that he and Sherlock were romantically involved in some way or another. It had gotten to the point where it wasn’t worth the waste of breath to refute it all. Let them think whatever they want, John though, at least Sherlock and I know the truth. Amy and Rory were standing behind the Doctor, looking over his shoulder as he crouched down in front of a collection of unusual contraptions.

“What are those?” Sherlock asked, eyeing everything with interest.

“Ah, well,” The Doctor began, “This one,” he pointed to what looked like a set of headphones that had been in a run-in with a cathode-ray television, “is a spatial awareness dilator,” he indicated a satellite dish with some television rabbit ears and a large battery pack attached, “that’s a chryonic field emitter, and this,” he held up an old radio with a phone and a film spool coming out of it, “is my timey-wimey detector!” he sounded very proud of himself. Even Amy and Rory looked dubious.

“Are you sure he’s not just mad?” John asked them, and Rory made a face that portrayed a sense of “Well, yes and no”.

“Oh, I’m mad,” The Doctor said, smiling, “But never just mad.” John shook his head. Just what he needed, two crazy geniuses.

“What, exactly, are you going to do with those?” Sherlock asked. He looked interested.

“First,” The Doctor said, “I’m going to take them apart. And then,” he flashed an excited smile, “I’ll put them all together.” With that, he set about removing bits and pieces from each of the strange inventions that he’d gathered.

“Do we just stand here and watch, then?” John asked Rory. He shrugged,

“Sometimes. It might take him a while though.”

“I don’t suppose this thing has a kettle somewhere?” John asked, indicating the interior of the TARDIS with a sweep of his hand. 

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Rory answered, “Let me show you the kitchen.” It didn’t faze John at all; of course the spaceship had a kitchen. Rory led the way to a doorway on the opposite side of the room. John made to follow, but glanced back over his shoulder to Sherlock.

“You coming?” He called. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, eyes fixed on the Doctor and his inventing. “Right then. Well, try not to get into too much trouble while I’m gone.” Amy, who had balanced herself on a ramp and was leaning against the railing, smiled at John.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep them in line,” she said, “If I can manage the Doctor and Rory, I’m sure one more won’t be difficult.” John almost said “You say that now,” but thought better of it. This was a woman who could hold her own. Maybe she’d even give Sherlock a run for his money. He gave a little wave, and went after Rory, led by the rumbling in his stomach, and wondering what space aliens would have by way of lunch.


	5. Unwelcome Interruptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock adjusts, and the Doctor comes up with a plan. John still doesn't get a proper meal, and Mycroft, as always, attempts to meddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, massive thanks to my laudable Beta and Brit-picker [Becca](http://ncis-superwholocked.tumblr.com/), and my apologies and condolences to my terrific Beta [Angelassbutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelassbutt), who has lost her computer to the cruel hands of fate. I hope that you get everything sorted out soon! This would not be the story it is without their assistance.

Sherlock was in equal parts flustered and fascinated. On the one hand, a great many of his previously held beliefs about the nature of the universe needed reworking. On the other hand, he was presented with a plethora of irresistible new information, everywhere he turned. His mind was racing through everything, formulating and rejecting theories as he took in his surroundings and tried to work out how it was all possible.

The idea of there being intelligent life somewhere else in the universe hadn’t been something he’d bothered with previously. It held no influence on his daily goings on or the Work, and so he simply hadn't given it a second thought. It hadn’t seemed entirely outside of the realm of possibility, given the infinite size of the universe, but he’d certainly never thought that he’d actually run into one in London. Especially one like this Doctor. The man – the Time Lord – seemed to be permanently bursting with energy, as though he would fly apart at the seams if he ever stopped moving. He was also sad, though, Sherlock could tell. When he’d pulled a piece off of the “timey-wimey detector” he’d looked wistful, remembering something – no, someone. Now, though, he was a flurry of movement again, piecing things together, pulling them apart, putting them back together in other configurations, and pointing the little light-up device – the Sonic Screwdriver – at bits and pieces as he went. Sherlock pulled himself up onto the railing by Amy and perched on it, watching.

“So, you’re a famous detective, eh?” Amy asked, looking up at him. Sherlock gave a noncommittal shrug, still watching the Doctor.

“Not that I’m aware of. You’re not from the future, then?”

“No, I’m from the same time period you are.”

“How did you end up here?” he asked, knowing that she would understand him to mean “with the Doctor” and not “sitting on a ramp”. It had been bothering him, something he’d been unable to figure out on his own, as to the nature of their relationship.

“He crash-landed in my backyard when I was a little girl,” Amy answered. Sherlock remained quiet, and so she continued, “I had a crack in my wall. Turned out to be sort of a crack in time and the universe. He disappeared for twelve years, then showed up again, except for him it was only five minutes. Long story short, all of time and space was about to rip itself to shreds, so he sacrificed himself and the TARDIS to set it right, and then everyone forgot he ever existed, until I remembered, which brought him back. And then he came to my wedding.” The moment of silence that followed as Sherlock took everything in and formed a more concrete picture of Amy was permeated only by the Doctor muttering to himself and the whir of the Sonic Screwdriver. Sherlock gave a short nod.

“So he often just takes people with him?”

“Yes, from what I can tell. I think it’s lonely, being the only one.” That explained the sadness Sherlock had seen. The man was different than anyone around him, completely alien, completely other. He found the few people in the universe who understood him, and he held them close, taking them with him.

Sherlock swallowed around a sudden lump that had seemed to form in his throat. Perhaps he shouldn’t have had that third cup of coffee the night previous, if it was making him queasy. He slipped down off of the railing, and crouched down next to the Doctor.

“You’re building some sort of scanning machine,” Sherlock said. It wasn’t a question. He knew that it was the logical explanation. They needed to find more information on whatever was killing the victims, and the usual senses and tools were not cutting it. The Doctor nodded.

“It should be able to let us track the energy field of whatever’s doing this. I just need some sort of resistor...” He trailed off and began patting his jacket and pants pockets, and searching around through the little bits of wire and screws on the floor. Sherlock felt a smile playing on the edges of his mouth as he put his hand into his pocket and withdrew a handful of small electronic components. Selecting a little carbon pile resistor, he held it out to the Doctor.

“Would this work?” he asked, laughter evident in his voice.

“Perfect! I could kiss you!” the Doctor cried out. Sherlock moved his head backwards quickly to avoid finding out if the Doctor meant that figuratively or literally. Fortunately, the Doctor simply took the proffered piece and inserted it into the circuit he was making. “Do you usually carry resistors and contact switch brackets in your pockets?” he asked once that was done.

“Not usually, but there was an incident with the toaster last night, and I decided to keep a few pieces in case they proved useful.” The Doctor nodded, smiling.

“Well, they’ve certainly come in handy, haven’t they? Are you saving that dial assembly, or can I use it too?” Sherlock held out his handful of toaster parts as if to say “by all means.” The Doctor helped himself to the aforementioned dial assembly, in addition to two small springs and a piece of wire. This was followed by a bit more fiddling with the device that he was making, and then a triumphant “Ha ha!”

“What’ve you built?” Amy asked.

“It’s a lateral field shift scanner!” he declared proudly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“Course not, I just invented it,” The Doctor said with a smile, and he took off towards the door of the TARDIS, calling back, “Where did Rory and Dr. Watson get off to?” John, impeccable timing as always, stepped through the door on the opposite side of the console room.

“Where’re you going?” he asked, holding a cup of tea in one hand and what appeared to be a handful of biscuits in the other.

“We’re going to go find out what’s causing these murders,” the Doctor said excitedly. Sherlock fixed him with a dark look.

“You can't just take my case,” he said, “Just because you-” the Doctor cut him off.

“Take your case? Never! I wouldn't dream of taking a case from the great Sherlock Holmes! I'm going to _assist you_ with your case!” Sherlock studied him closely for a moment, before giving an almost-imperceptible nod.

“Fine,” he said, “But don't get in my way.” He turned back to John, who was watching the proceedings with a mildly amused smile. “Put the tea down, John. We have to go.” John gave a long-suffering look, but simply sighed and placed the teacup down on the floor near the console.

“I'm taking the biscuits with me,” John said, wrapping Jammie Dodgers in a napkin, and Rory smothered a smile with his hand. Sherlock just nodded, and spun to follow the Doctor. Amy followed closely behind, with an excited jaunt in her steps. Rory and John brought up the rear, but Sherlock could still hear what they were saying as he stepped out of the police box's door and back into the late morning damp of London in autumn.

“Is he always like this?” Rory asked quietly. John let out a short, staccato laugh.

“No, not always,” John replied after swallowing a mouthful of biscuit, “When he's not on a case he's ten times worse.” Sherlock smiled to himself at the fondness evident in John's voice. _It's true_ , he thought, _I'd be lost without my courageous biographer._

By the time they'd gotten back to the crime scene the body had been taken for an autopsy, and Lestrade had left to go deal with what was sure to be a mess of a press conference. The flat was cordoned off with police tape, and an officer was standing on guard just outside in the hall. John recognized him, but couldn't recall his name.

“Forensics is gone already. Just waiting for the scene to be released,” the officer said by way of greeting, “The Detective Inspector said I can let you and Dr. Watson in, Mr. Holmes, but he didn't say anything about the other three.” He nodded towards Amy, Rory and the Doctor, glancing briefly at the odd invention being held by the last man. John could feel Sherlock preparing to bully their way past the poor officer, but the Doctor didn't give him the chance. He stepped forwards, and pulled something out of his pocket, flashing it at the young man.

“Not to worry, we're authorized to be here,” he said as the police officer scrutinized whatever ID he was holding, “Now, if you'll just excuse us...” the Doctor slipped past and ducked under the police tape, followed by Amy and Rory. The officer simply stood aside and let them by. John and Sherlock followed, sharing a brief glance of confusion.

Once inside the flat and just outside the bedroom, Sherlock asked, “What ID do you have there?” The Doctor smiled, and pulled out the wallet-like ID holder, allowing John and Sherlock to have a look. It was a perfectly replicated Serious Organized Crime Agency identification card, down to the little holographic crown above the logo. The Doctor's face smiled from the picture, and where there should have been a name it said simply “The Doctor”.

“It's just a blank piece of paper,” Sherlock said, equal parts scorn and confusion in his tone.

“What are you talking about, Sherlock?” John asked, “It's a SOCA ID card. Did you hit your head while I was in the kitchen?” The Doctor, however, looked delighted by Sherlock's answer.

“Knew you were a genius! Last human to see through it without training must've been... Shakespeare, I think.” Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow, and John tilted his head slightly in the hopes that perhaps a slight change of angle might cause things to start making sense again. “It's psychic paper,” the Doctor explained, “It'll look like what I want it to look like. Comes in handy. Can't fool real genius types though.” That made sense, John supposed, in the same way that anything was making sense that day. Sherlock had a look on his face similar to when he had an idea for a particularly revolting experiment – bright eyes and a slightly disconcerting smile.

“May I?” he asked, holding out his hand. The Doctor handed him the psychic paper, and Sherlock turned it over in his hands, no doubt thinking how useful it would be for getting into places where they weren't supposed to be. “I don't suppose you have another one of these that I could... borrow?” The Doctor shook his head,

“I can't go leaving alien technology with just anyone, you know.” Sherlock looked a bit put-out, but didn't kick up a fuss, thankfully. The entire matter was put aside when the Doctor started setting up his... invention.

“So, how does this... liberal field scanner thing work?” John asked.

“Lateral field shift scanner,” Sherlock and the Doctor both corrected. The latter looked a bit put-out at having his thunder stolen, but he recovered quickly, and explained,

“Well, I just put these on...” he donned the huge set of headphones, “And then flip the switch here,” he flicked something on the radio-part, “and then I should be able to...” He trailed off, holding the satellite dish out in front of himself. He looked thoroughly ridiculous. The headphones looked like something straight out of the 80s, which John supposed they very well could be. They were plugged into the radio-like thing, which had been stripped of the recording tape spool and fitted with the cathode ray tube, which made it look rather heavy. Another thick, coiled wire led out to the satellite dish, which the Doctor was now waving around in front of himself, listening intently. What had previously been the television screen end of the cathode ray tube displayed several blotchy lights, and they were shifting as the Doctor moved about the victim's bedroom. Everyone watched silently for several minutes, until the Doctor approached the victim's bed, and suddenly flinched and threw the headphones off.

The dreadful screeching noise being emitted by the headset was audible even from across the room, so it was no surprise that the Doctor had a horrified and pained look on his face. Rory was first to rush forward, flicking the lateral field shift scanner's switch into the “off” position, and placing a hand on the Doctor’s shoulder.

 

“Are you alright?” Rory asked as everyone else crowded in, “What happened?” Sherlock was eyeing the scanner with a mixture of puzzlement and discontent. The Doctor placed his hands over his ears and let out a quiet shout,

“Ahh! That was very unpleasant!” John pursed his lips to avoid smiling at the man’s animated reaction.

“What was that?” Amy asked. The Doctor’s expression quickly changed to worry.

“That,” he said, “was very not good.” Sherlock huffed.

“If you could perhaps explain a bit further than that?” he asked, frustration evident in his tone. Amy sent him a glare, but the Doctor simply shrugged it off.

“Well…” he looked reluctant, but continued, “It seems that I was right. What we’re dealing with is definitely not human.” Amy and Sherlock both nodded resolutely.

“So, we stop it,” Amy said at the same moment Sherlock asked “Then what is it?” The Doctor looked distinctly uncomfortable as he answered,

“Yes, well, it’s… not really alien either…” Now everyone looked confused. John could see the impatience vibrating just under Sherlock’s surface, and tried to catch his eye to give him a “Try to calm down” sort of look, with no success.

“Just spit it out!” Sherlock exclaimed, making John wince. The Doctor gave him a look of consternation before continuing,

“If I was reading the signal and images right, before practically going deaf, then it looks like whatever has been killing these women is… supernatural in origin.” A stunned, disbelieving silence descended on the group, but everyone’s facial expressions gave a clear picture of what they were thinking. The Doctor was cringing, as though not wanting to admit something he didn’t want to be true. Amy looked confused and slightly disbelieving. Rory had wrinkled his forehead and was looking slightly upwards, as if trying to remember if he’d heard anything like this before. Sherlock looked sceptical… and distinctly displeased. John was simply resigned. No one spoke for several seconds, and just as the Doctor looked about ready to say something, he was cut off by the chirping ring of Sherlock’s phone.

“Are you gonna get that?” Amy asked. Sherlock’s response was a sharp,

“No.” She looked at him quizzically, as though expecting an answer. John was pretty sure that he already knew what it was.

“Mycroft?” he asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. John bit the inside of his lip to stop the amused smile from spreading onto his face. Of course it would be bloody Mycroft. The other three people in the room all looked puzzled, but when Sherlock waved his hand dismissively the Doctor just shrugged and continued with an explanation.

“It’s not entirely outside of the realm of possibility, in theory. Whatever’s been here has made the lateral field scanner go haywire, and left some very… _distinct_ dimensional fingerprints behind. It’s not from technology, it’s almost like a crack between worlds…” Rory looked distinctly worried, and the Doctor quickly reassured him, “Oh, no, not that sort of crack. More… portal-y, less time field-y. Still…” He trailed off once again, and turned back to the scanner, turning it on but leaving the headphones off. As he was watching the colours change on the screen, John’s phone began to ring. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the caller id.

**Mycroft Holmes**

Great. He looked over to Sherlock who gave his phone a dark glare, then shook his head. _Don’t answer it._ John returned the glare with a pointed look of his own. _If I don’t answer it, he’ll just keep calling._ Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes, and shook his head again. John pressed the “ignore call” button, but he knew full well that it wouldn’t be long before it rang again. He turned his attention back to the matter at hand just in time to see Rory and Amy exchange an amused look.

“This is very strange,” the Doctor muttered as he swept the satellite dish around in an arc in front of the bed, “I’ve only seen something like this once before.”

“When?” Sherlock asked shortly, “Where?”

“1996, Atlanta Georgia. I was there for the Olympics. There were several unexplained heart attacks in the area, but not enough that anyone got suspicious. The TARDIS picked up some strange readings, but I didn’t get a chance to find out what was causing them. Maybe-” he was cut off by Sherlock’s phone chirping again, and John looked over at his friend with an exasperated sigh. Sherlock growled slightly, but removed the phone from his pocket and handed it to John.

“What, you want me to talk to him?” John asked. Sherlock’s scornfully arched eyebrow communicated the unspoken message of “Obviously” and John pressed the answer button. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“Now, is that any way to speak to your flatmate’s only brother?” John felt his jaw tense.

“It’s the only way to speak to you.”

“Come now, John, I thought we’d moved past this. Can you put Sherlock on please?” The “this” to which Mycroft was referring was the distrust and anger that John felt for the older Holmes brother since learning that he had been the one to supply Jim Moriarty with the information key to Sherlock's downfall three years ago. Mycroft had taken the entire affair – his brother's death, his own culpability – with the same stoic reserve with which he faced everything. John, who'd barely even bothered to get out of bed for the first month, had never completely forgiven him. So, no, they hadn't “moved past this” and, John thought, he sincerely doubted they ever would. Nonetheless, he still looked at Sherlock with the unspoken message of “Your brother wants to speak to you”. Sherlock vehemently shook his head no. Everyone else was doing their best to not intrude on the illusion of privacy.

“I’m afraid he’s busy at the moment,” John said, letting the insincerity behind the apology ring through, “We’ve got a case.”

“Yes, I know, that’s exactly why I’m calling.” Of course it was. “It’s been brought to my attention that you’ve acquired some… unusual company for your investigation. I’m assuming you know of whom I am speaking?” John glanced over at the Doctor, who replied with a puzzled look and head tilt reminiscent of a confused puppy.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” John said. Sherlock flashed him a brief approving smile. He could almost hear Mycroft’s unamused look as he said, all charm,

“Of course it’s my business. Anything concerning my brother and the security of our nation is my business.”

“The security of – ? What are you talking about Mycroft?”

“You think we don’t know about this “Doctor” with whom you’ve decided to team up? Well, he may not be common knowledge, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone entirely without notice. Now, if you’d be so kind as to _put my brother on the phone._ ” Those last words were enunciated pointedly, and John gave in, holding the phone out for Sherlock, who, despite the look of distaste, took the mobile.

“What?” John smiled down at his shoes. Sherlock's relationship with his brother was even more strained than John's. Whatever Mycroft said made Sherlock roll his eyes, and then glance over at the Doctor. “Believe it or not, Mycroft, you are not the utmost authority on everything throughout the whole of the country. In fact, I would say that, in this particular situation, John and I have a considerably greater grasp on the facts than you.” The Doctor had returned to watching his scanner, and Amy and Rory were whispering with him, not out of a desire for secrecy, but to avoid interrupting Sherlock. Whatever was said next on the other end of the phone made Sherlock narrow his eyes and straighten his posture. John watched more closely, curious as to what had caught Sherlock's attention.

 

“When?” Sherlock asked, his voice clipped. He let out a frustrated sigh, but obviously gave in to whatever it was Mycroft was asking for, as he replied, “Fine. Fine! We'll be at Baker Street within the hour. Don't think I'll forget this, though.” John didn't need to hear the other end of the phone conversation to know that Mycroft said something along the lines of “No, I'm sure you won't” before Sherlock pressed the end call button emphatically and shoved the mobile back into his pocket.

“What does he want?” John asked.

“To talk,” Sherlock replied, spitting out the second word as though it were an invective.

“About the Doctor?” the faces of the other three in the room swivelled around to face John and Sherlock.

“Obviously,” Sherlock answered, “Do you know of any other alien time travellers we've encountered within the past twenty four hours?” John didn't dignify the sarcasm with a response.

“Someone wants to talk about me? I'm flattered,” the Doctor said. John wasn't sure if his surprise was genuine or not. “Who's Mycroft?”

“You know all about Sherlock, but you've never heard of Mycroft?” John asked.

“Not all about, just of,” the Doctor clarified, “Is he important?”

Sherlock snorted, “He'd like to think so. He's my brother.”

“Also known as the British Government,” John supplied by way of clarification.

“He seems to have some knowledge of your existence, Doctor,” Sherlock added.

“Yes, the government would,” the Doctor said, “Bit of business with Earth narrowly escaping alien invasion on a few occasions. Do you need to go? Amy, Rory and I can finish up here, meet you at two-two-one-B Baker Street.” John wasn't sure how he felt about near-strangers knowing his home address, but it was a little late to do anything about it. Sherlock didn't seem to have the same misgiving, simply answering,

“Yes, I suppose. Best to just get Mycroft out of the way, and there's nothing more I can learn here. Meet us there in an hour or so,” he said, before turning to leave without another word. John hung back for a moment.

“Er, do any of you have a mobile?” he asked. Rory got his out first, so he and John swapped numbers. It was always best to have a line of communication in case something went wrong – as had a habit of happening when dealing with the Holmes brothers. He hesitated for another moment before Amy mad a shooing motion with her hands.

“Go on,” she said, “We won't leave you out of the loop, will we Doctor?”

“What? No. No!” the Doctor said, confused, “Of course not. We'll be along shortly. I'll just pop back to the TARDIS and see if I can find something from these readings.” He went back to scanning around the room, and John nodded his thanks to Amy and Rory before turning to go. He caught up to Sherlock, who was waiting impatiently, holding the door to the lift open.

“So what does Mycroft know about the Doctor?” John asked as they stepped out onto the ground floor.

“I'm not sure,” Sherlock said casually, “But I suppose we're about to find out.” Neither of them were surprised to find a black jaguar parked in front of the building, one of Mycroft's interchangeable assistants standing by the open door. John and Sherlock shared a look of exasperation, and entered the car.

 


	6. Bizarre Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft does what he does best, and the Doctor brings some unusual news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, massive thanks to my stellar Beta and Brit-picker [Becca](http://ncis-superwholocked.tumblr.com/). And here's hoping that my other lovely Beta [Angelassbutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelassbutt) get her computer fixed soon!

The car was devoid of Mycroft. Sherlock couldn't decide if this was good or bad. On the one hand, it meant that he wouldn't be trapped in a moving vehicle with the pompous blowhard. On the other, it meant that he was probably already at Baker Street, setting himself up to have the advantage in an ambush on Sherlock's home turf. It also meant that Sherlock would have to wait longer to ascertain the real reason behind his brother's meddling. John was silent beside Sherlock for the first ten minutes, frowning and watching the woman across from them type away on her phone without so much as a glance at them. John wasn't scowling at her, Sherlock knew. He was scowling at the entire situation. He obviously wanted to discuss with Sherlock what, exactly, Mycroft might know about the Doctor, but did not wish to do so in front of a witness. This stemmed from both a sense of loyalty in keeping the Doctor's identity secret, and fear of having the woman judge him to be insane. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The amount of power over him that John gave to attractive women was appalling, at best. From a man with such courage, it was doubly pathetic. Sherlock was about to say as much when John's phone went off. 

“It's Rory,” John said, unnecessarily. Of course it was Rory. Lestrade only got together with John when not on a major case, Mycroft would have called, and John hadn't been on a “date” for at least eight weeks. Sherlock was the only other person who texted John, so it had to be someone new. Given recent events, it had to be one of the three time travellers. The Doctor didn't strike Sherlock as the texting type, and John and Rory had obviously hit it off, bonding over medical training and unremarkable origins. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock articulated. John was unfazed, simply handing the phone over for him to read.

**Doctor comparing scans in TARDIS. May have found something. Be at your place in 30.**

Well, that was good. Anything was better than the infuriating lack of information they currently had about this case. The phone chimed again, and another text flashed up on the screen.

**Got anything for lunch?**

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He didn't want people inviting themselves over for lunch. It was his and John's flat, not some sort of hostel. People couldn't assume that they could just pop by for tea whenever they liked. He tossed the mobile back at John, perhaps slightly less gently than he should have.

“Ow, Sherlock! What was that for?” John asked, rubbing his arm where the phone had hit him. Sherlock said nothing, choosing instead to glower out the window for the remainder of the car ride. When they pulled up to the curb at the flat, he swept out of the car and into the building without looking back. 

 

John didn't know what had made Sherlock so grumpy, but he chose to ignore it. Tantrums were nothing new, and paying them undue attention only seemed to draw them out. He simply watched Sherlock's back with puzzlement as they made their way up the stairs and into the flat. Neither of them were surprised to find an umbrella resting against John's favourite chair, and a Mycroft resting in it.

“Gentlemen,” Mycroft oozed. Sherlock shrugged out of his coat and went to stand by his own chair. John followed suit, but chose to sit on the couch. “You should sit, Sherlock, I hear you've had a busy morning,” Mycroft continued.

“I'll only be standing again within five minutes to show you the door,” Sherlock drawled. John sank back a little into the couch, content to watch the back and forth of the verbal tennis match between the brothers.

“Come now, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, “since when do you ever actually make the effort to show people the door? This will be much easier – and considerably faster – if you just cooperate.” Sherlock glared, but sat. Point Mycroft, thought John.

“Get on with it, then,” Sherlock volleyed, “Lunch hour is fast approaching, and we both know how you get if you're late for a meal.” Point Sherlock. Mycroft smiled condescendingly, and produced a file from the slick briefcase he'd brought with him. He didn't immediately hand it however, however, choosing instead to speak.

“How much do you know about this Doctor you've decided to take up with?” John thought it was probably safe to say that Mycroft would know a fair bit. The man probably knew what colour socks the Prime Minister was wearing on any given day.

“I know that he's an extraterrestrial with a time-travelling space vessel disguised as a police phone box,” Sherlock said, somehow managing to look utterly bored. Mycroft's face didn't even twitch for a moment out of the mask of calm he wore almost-constantly. 

“And do you know anything beyond that? Or were you so completely thrown by the supposed scientific impossibility that you were unable to pull yourself together for long enough to discover anything else?” John knew Sherlock well enough to see the faint flicker of humiliation in the near-imperceptible quiver of his brow. Point Mycroft. 

“Is there anything else that I should know?” Sherlock asked, “Does his planet of origin make any difference in his ability to help solve my case?” Mycroft gave another patronizing look.

“Perhaps you should take a look at this,” he handed over the file, and John did his very best not to look insatiably curious. Sherlock began flipping through the pages, eyes darting back and forth as he absorbed the information contained therein. 

“There was an entire government agency created in the nineteenth century in response to the threat posed by the Doctor,” Mycroft continued, “He brings trouble with him every time he turns up. At best, it ends with mounds of paperwork and a few hysterical civilians. At worst, it ends with death, on a massive scale.” John gave up the pretence of disinterest and shuffled forward to look over Sherlock's shoulder. There were several photographs, from many different eras, each one containing, circled in red marker, the same face. The same gangly, bow-tie-wearing man. In one, he was in the crowd at the recent royal wedding of Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge. In another he was in the back row of parliament, watching the swearing in of Prime Minister Asquith, in 1908. Yet another photograph, dated 1941, showed the Doctor deep in conversation with none other than Winston Churchill. 

“Well, he certainly gets around, doesn't he?” John asked, the boredom in his voice successfully masking his fascination, “What does this have to do with our murder investigation?” Mycroft pursed his lips, letting some of his annoyance slip into his expression. Ooh, point John. That was rare. Approval radiated off of Sherlock in waves, and John did his best not to gloat.

“I don't think either of you are taking this seriously,” Mycroft said, “This man is far more than whoever or whatever he says he is, and if you think for one moment-” Sherlock cut him off.

“Yes, thank you Mycroft, he's very dangerous and we should both be very careful or we'll end up being dragged along to every notable event throughout the past millennium, forced to endure an unending parade of royal weddings and famous dates in history. Are you finished?” 

“No,” Mycroft said decisively, “It's not being dragged through history that you must be wary of. It's becoming part of it.” John's brow scrunched up in unspoken question, and Mycroft continued, “Has he spoken about what's happened to the other people he's chosen to bring with him over the years?” John remained silent. “Surely you didn't think that Mr. And Mrs. Williams were the first? Perhaps you should ask him.” With that, the elder Holmes brother stood, grabbing his umbrella and briefcase, and made for the door. He paused before exiting the flat to add, “Do try not to get into too much trouble, Sherlock. You know it makes mummy worry so. And, if you can, avoid bringing down onto England the wrath of someone as-of-yet unknown species. I tire of cleaning up your messes.” and with that, he left, closing the door silently behind himself.

John let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding in. The match appeared to be something of a draw. Sherlock was still leaned back in his chair, file open on his lap, looking entirely nonchalant.

“What did he mean?” John asked, referring to what Mycroft had said about the Doctor’s friends, earning an annoyed sigh.

“Don't be tedious, John,” Sherlock said, “He means that companions of this Doctor have a tendency to end up dead.” 

“And... you knew this already?” An arched eyebrow conveyed Sherlock's frustration at John failing to grasp what was, to him, obvious.

“He's almost a thousand years old,” Sherlock said, “He's bound to have lost people in that time. And the way that he looks sometimes, when little things remind him of something – or someone – he's obviously missing not just one but several people. It's not surprising, considering the way that he barrels through into the search for a serial killer as though it's no less commonplace than popping out to the market for a loaf of bread. He lives for the adventure, John. There are always risks associated with that. Does it bother you?” 

The last question took John somewhat off guard. He thought for a moment before realizing that no, it didn't really bother him. He and Sherlock didn't exactly live the safest and most stable lives, either. Besides, Sherlock was obviously going to run off in the TARDIS in search of answers to the case, and there was no way in hell that John wasn't going to go with him. “No, it doesn't bother me,” John said, then smiled softly at Sherlock, “Just make sure that if you get stranded on some planet of sentient swamp weeds that I'm there with you, alright? Someone has to keep you alive.” Sherlock blinked at him for half of a heartbeat, then stood and reclaimed his chair. John got up and headed to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock called over the sound of water filling the kettle.

“We're having people over, Sherlock!” John hollered back, “I'm putting the kettle on, seeing if there's anything edible in the cupboards, and making sure that the most disgusting of your experiments are confined to one drawer in the fridge!” He didn't need to be able to hear him to know Sherlock was letting out a huff. The man was childishly protective of his own space sometimes. John ignored him, and turned his attention to sweeping up the remnants of Sherlock's early morning tantrum. This was followed by scrounging up what food he could find. It seemed that no matter how often he did the shopping, there was never anything in the flat worth eating. Fortunately he was fairly resourceful, and quickly had the contents of a tin of chicken soup simmering on the stove and some cheese melting on bread in the oven. It wasn't exactly fine cuisine, but he was hungry enough that it didn't bother him. 

The knock on the door was purposeful and unselfconscious, and John didn't need to ask who it was. “Come in!” he called, and the Doctor, Amy, and Rory poured into the flat. John turned off the cooktop and removed the soup, which was now steaming. The cheese toast needed a little longer to finish melting. He turned his attention to their guests. “Would anyone like tea?” he asked, feeling mildly awkward in the role of domesticity. All three newcomers smiled, though, and he found himself feeling a bit less uncomfortable.

“Tea would be splendid!” the Doctor said, marching into the flat as though it was his own, pausing when he saw the skull on the mantle. “Friend of yours?” he directed the question at Sherlock. The response was accompanied by a withering look.

“No.” The Doctor had the confused puppy look again. 

“What's his problem?” Amy asked John. He rolled his eyes.

“His brother, I'd expect,” John answered, “He's a bit of a prat. They both are, actually. Anyone want soup?” Amy nodded, and Rory said “Yes please” and the three of them settled in around the kitchen table with cups of tea, steaming bowls, and slices of cheesy bread. The Doctor brought his tea into the living room, settling into the vacant armchair and facing Sherlock.

 

Sherlock didn't like it. Helping with a case was one thing, but now they had John serving them, and Rory was sitting in Sherlock's place at the table, and John hadn't even asked if Sherlock wanted any soup. Not that he would have said yes, but he was still cross that he hadn't been asked. The Doctor was sitting in John's chair, and studying him. Sherlock faced resolutely forward, ignoring the scrutiny, a feat which became much harder when the Doctor began to speak, his voiced hushed so as to not be heard by the merry band of fools in the kitchen.

“There's no reason for you to be jealous, you know.” 

Sherlock snorted, “Jealous? Don't be ridiculous.” he chose not to see the knowing little smile in the corner of the Doctor's mouth. 

“Alright, fair enough,” the Doctor said, holding his hand up in surrender, “Would you like to know what we found out?” Sherlock was unable to stop himself from leaning forward, giving away his interest.

“I would.”

“Well, I was right. I had seen energy signatures like it before, when I was in Georgia. Energy signatures exactly like it, in fact. An identical match.” Sherlock lit up.

“He's done it before. In Atlanta.” The Doctor nodded. “What happened there? Did they catch him? Did they have any leads?” At this, the Doctor looked less enthusiastic.

“Ah, well, no. Not as such,” he said, sagging a little, “But! There's a bit more to go on.” Sherlock could feel that the attention of the other three had been drawn to them. “There's a pattern. Have you got a map of Georgia by any chance?” Sherlock shook his head, but pulled out John's laptop.

“You know, your laptop is in perfect working order,” John grumbled from the table.

“Yes, but it's all the way in my room,” Sherlock replied, booting up the computer and typing in John's password. Since Sherlock's return from the dead, John hadn't bothered to come up with new passwords every week, after Sherlock inevitably figured out the old ones. He'd finally just accepted that Sherlock would sometimes use his computer, and that there wasn't really anything he could do about it. In return for this concession, Sherlock did his best to refrain from exploring the laptop's internet history. He did not, however, teach his friend how to use the browser's incognito mode. It was just too engaging to watch John's ears turn pink when he would casually mention certain website preferences in the odd conversation. 

Now, however, Sherlock had a much more important reason to use the laptop than embarrassing his flatmate. He brought up a map of Georgia, then passed the computer to the Doctor, who set about typing and clicking. Several moments later, he turned the screen back to Sherlock. Six points had been flagged on the map, and Sherlock studied them for a moment, before turning back to the Doctor. “A unicursal hexagram?” the other man nodded. “So, a cult of some sort.” The Doctor shook his head.

“No, unfortunately. I think it might be something far more sinister than a group of misled humans.” 

Rory interrupted, coming over to ask, “Sorry, but, what's a unicursal hexagram?” Sherlock grabbed a pen and scrap of paper from the end table, and scribbled out the six pointed “Aquarian star”, then handed the paper to Rory.

“It's called a unicursal hexagram because it can be drawn with one continuous motion. It's also known as the Aquarian star, or Solomon's star. It's used by some religious groups, and represents a variety of things, including union of heaven and earth, and union of man and woman – oh!” he stopped himself as realization bloomed inside him. Of course! The star was being used to symbolize the unions between victims and murderer! He grabbed another sheet of paper, and started drawing a basic outline of the area in London where the bodies had been found. As he'd excepted, the three buildings lined up as the first three points of the hexagram. 

“The murderer's choice of victims has to do with the star, doesn't it Sherlock?” John asked, having come to look down over Sherlock's shoulder at what he had drawn. “Union between man and woman – all those women had just had intercourse for the first time right before they died.” Sherlock beamed up at John.

“Yes! Exactly! It's definitely some sort of ritual. If these three buildings are the first three points, then...” He circled the next three locations. He'd need to check an actual map to be certain, but he was almost positive that each of the other three points would have a flat building. 

“But what about the number of victims in each building?” John asked, “Is it random, or is there some sort of pattern to that as well?”

“I'm not sure,” Sherlock answered, still focusing on the little map, “But perhaps... yes that makes sense-” He was cut off by Amy pointedly clearing her throat.

“Care to let the rest of us in on what's got you so excited?” 

Sherlock twisted in his seat and stood up to begin pacing frantically. “We have a pattern!” He said, smiling, eyes wide. “We know where he'll strike next! We can predict where he'll be, and plan for it!” John placed a hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder, his way of saying “bring it down a notch”. Sherlock did his very best to settle back into his chair, but he couldn't keep his feet from shifting restlessly. “What else Doctor?” he asked, “What else did they find in Georgia? Any clues as to what's doing this?” The wary look on the Doctor's face was very different from the one Sherlock knew he wore on his own.

“They found sulphur, actually. Around the door to one of the victims' bedrooms.” Sherlock looked at him quizzically, and John asked,

“What, like sulphuric acid? Was it use to burn through the lock or something?” The Doctor shook his head.

“No, pure sulphur, in solid form. Minute traces around the threshold.” Both Sherlock and John tilted their heads slightly, mirror images of confusion. 

“Does that give some clue as to what species of alien is doing this?” Sherlock asked. The look that the Doctor got on his face was not indicative of anything good. Sherlock was reminded of the expression John had held just before telling Sherlock that he'd thrown out an experiment in fungus growth in decomposed human tissue, thinking it had been takeaway gone bad. It was a pained sort of grimace with a slight cringe of the shoulders. “What? What is it?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well,” said the Doctor, still dithering, “It's... not actually an alien, I don't think.” Sherlock waited for a moment before moving his head in a gesture that mean “And what do you think?” The Doctor took a deep breath before stating, “I think it might be a demon.”


	7. Unannounced Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock solves one piece of the puzzle, and the group heads for the United States.  
> Dean just wants eight hours of sleep, a hot shower, and a day off, but two out of three ain't bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mucho gracias to my incredible beta, [Angelassbutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelassbutt) who has a computer again! (Yay) Now it is my lovely beta and Brit-picker [Becca](http://ncis-superwholocked.tumblr.com/) for whose computer I wish a speedy recovery. Any and all mistakes in British-isms are my own, so I apologize if my Canadian is showing. Hope you enjoy!

John wondered if perhaps he hadn't hit his head at some point within the last twenty four hours. Maybe he was actually lying in hospital somewhere, hooked up to a ventilator, and this was his brain's last flickers of life before going silent. Or perhaps, the darker part of him whispered, it had been a little longer than that. Maybe he'd given in all of those months ago, and had succumbed to the temptation of oblivion. Maybe this whole life – Sherlock back from the dead – was a figment of his drugged-out brain while he sat in a padded room in a straight jacket. He quickly stomped that part of his brain back into the corner it had crawled out from.

“I'm sorry, a what?” Rory was saying. The Doctor still wore a look on his face as though he had backed the car into the bins at the end of the lane. 

“A demon,” the Doctor repeated remorsefully.

“Demons don't exist,” Amy said, “There's no such thing as magic.”

“Well...” the Doctor drew this word out as though it were three syllables instead of just one, “That's not _entirely_ accurate...” Sherlock was pinching the bridge of his nose as though trying to hold off a headache. John knew exactly how he felt.

“But you said!” Rory stated accusingly, “You said there was no such thing as magic!” The Doctor held his hands up in a gesture of defence.

“I said I didn't _think_ there was such a thing as magic! I am – _occasionally_ – proven wrong.” Rory rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, 'occasionally', sure.” John smothered a smile with his hand when the Doctor looked rather put out. Sherlock seemed to be surprisingly calm.

“So, what do we do?” he asked.

“What, no existential crisis this time?” John asked. Sherlock's look conveyed perfectly the message of “oh, please”.

“I didn't have an 'existential crisis', and I'm not concerned right now because the very idea of 'demons' existing is absurd. This will prove to be nothing more than some extraterrestrial creature that the Doctor simply has yet to come across. Or perhaps an exceptionally talented serial killer with access to technology beyond his time.” The Doctor joined the conversation,

“There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” This earned him a scathing look from Sherlock, which he met with a haughty one of his own. John was definitely starting to enjoy having so many people around who weren't cowed by Sherlock's superior intellect and lack of tact. He was also curious if Sherlock might have “deleted” Shakespeare from his memory. The Doctor continued, “It may not be magic, but it's nothing like what I've encountered before. There have been instances in the past where I've come across science based in language instead of mathematics, so perhaps it's simply another case of that. Regardless, I'm going to go back to the TARDIS to see if I can find other instances like this, or anything else to do with that hexagram. Perhaps a visit to 1996 is in order. Or maybe just Georgia...”

John could read the conflict in Sherlock’s features. He would be the last to admit it, but he was well and truly stumped by this case, and needed the help and expertise of the Doctor. He was also vain and prideful, and unwilling to accept that someone else might be more knowledgeable about the world than himself. John held up a hand to the Doctor, indicating that he’d like a moment alone with his friend. The Doctor nodded graciously, and John gently pulled Sherlock into the hall to his bedroom, to give at least the illusion of privacy. 

“What?” Sherlock hissed at him once they were in his bedroom. John closed the door. 

“You know very well ‘what’, Sherlock,” John answered, crossing his arms and leaning against the solid wood of the door frame, “Whatever’s going on here is out of your depth. Whether or not it’s actually something supernatural, or just some sort of technology that the Doctor hasn’t encountered before, it doesn’t matter. Neither of those is something we’ve come up against, and if we don’t go with the Doctor and sort this all out _with his help_ then this case is going to end up in the unsolved pile!” Sherlock sniffed indignantly,

“I haven’t got an unsolved pile.”

“Well then, what exactly do you call the little stack that sits under your collection of broken mobile phones in the desk drawer?” John figured that he had him there.

“Four unsolved cases do not constitute a pile,” Sherlock snapped.

“Five,” John countered.

“Four,” Sherlock hurled back, “We both know that the incriminating diamond ring was fed to a neighbourhood stray. Just because we couldn’t actually _find_ said feline to prove as much, and just because the jury were all too stupid to understand, does not mean the case wasn’t solved!” John endeavoured to keep his mirth from his face. There were few things that Sherlock hated more than having his failures brought up. 

“Fine, four,” John said, “But none of those are serial murders. What does six or more unsolved murders look like to you, hmm? Because I’d say, added to the four, you’d have the beginnings of a sizeable pile.” Sherlock had apparently reached the end of his rope. He threw his arms up in anger, let out a growling yell, and stormed back into the living room. 

“Doctor!” he bellowed, far louder than necessary, “You’re not going anywhere in that box of yours without us. This was my case first, and I’ll be damned if I get left behind because of something as stupid as not believing in magic!” The Doctor looked confused.

“Did I say I was going to leave you behind? I don't think I did...” Rory and Amy were both failing to hide a matching pair of smirks. “Well, let's make one thing very clear. This was your case first, Sherlock Holmes, and I would be honoured if you and Doctor Watson would allow us to try and solve this with you! What do you think?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to suss out if there were any tricks or schemes at play, and then looked at John.

“John, you know how I feel about all of this, but if you don't want to come with us, I wou-” John didn't let him finish.

“Oh shut up, you berk. Of course I'm coming with you.” They grinned at each other, and then refocused on the Doctor, “What do we need to bring? Money? Change of pants? Er... I don't think I have much in the way of period-clothing...” The Doctor fluttered his hand as though waving away a silly child.

“None of that. The TARDIS'll have whatever we need. Might want to bring your laptops though, and your mobile phones.” Sherlock was already grabbing John's computer and the file on the case.

“Our mobile phones will work?” John asked, “I don't think my carrier's coverage zone extends to 1996.” Amy laughed,

“Don't worry, the Doctor'll fix that. You won't even see extra charges on your bill!” Anything that John might have quipped in reply was lost to the sound of the door to the flat opening. Sherlock stood half-in-half-out of the room, holding John’s laptop, his own computer bag, the case file, and his coat, looking impatiently at everyone else.

“Well? What are we waiting for?” he hollered. John laughed and shook his head, and the Doctor launched himself towards the exit, Amy and Rory in tow. With that, they were off.

-x-

Sherlock was practically vibrating with excitement and nervous energy. Discovering that time travel and instantaneous jumps through space were possible was one thing, but to actually have the opportunity to do so himself? It was unprecedented. The cab ride back to the TARDIS had been far too slow, and John had snapped at him twice to stop twitching in his seat. When they finally came to a stop within sight of the building in front of the blue box, Sherlock hurled himself out of the cab, leaving John to pay the driver and carry the laptop. The Doctor, Amy and Rory piled out of the cab that they'd followed in, and strolled purposefully towards Sherlock, but not nearly fast enough for Sherlock's taste. He bit his tongue to keep from voicing his frustration. It wouldn't do to get on the Doctor's bad side before they'd even... taken off? Dematerialized? Sherlock found himself studying the exterior of the blue box once again, trying to figure out how it would move from one location to the next. The Doctor came forward and pushed open the door, and everyone filed through, Sherlock in the lead. 

The sudden transition from small outside to massive inside was considerably less jarring the second time, but still made Sherlock's head reel. He couldn't help the quick sweep his eyes made around the room, taking everything in. Quickly, though, he regained his composure, and stepped aside to allow the others to pass. The Doctor headed straight for the large console in the centre of the room. 

“Right, so, here's what we've got so far about Atlanta, and about that Aquarian star,” he said, pulling a screen forward on a long, bendy arm. Sherlock and John crowded in to get a better look. There was all of the information that Sherlock already knew, such as its use for religious symbolism by some humans, and some that he hadn't, such as its use for religious symbolism by some aliens. Nothing seemed to mention anything about ritual murders. The Doctor, meanwhile, was flicking his fingers over the mass of buttons and switches on the other side of the console. Sherlock and John both looked up when he cried,

“AHA!” Everyone hurried over to see what the Doctor had found.

“What have you got?” Sherlock asked, unable to decipher the circular symbols on the Doctor’s screen that he assumed were some sort of alien language.

“Well, I decided to have a look at anything else associated with not just the hexagram, but also sulphur and deaths that looked like heart attacks, and...” he performed several more swipes with his fingers, and brought up a newspaper article from a town called Normal, Illinois, dated 1947. The headline read “Local Scholar Arrested in String of Murders”. The text went on to describe a similar occurrence as to the murders in London and Atlanta, including the presence of sulphur at two of the crime scenes. The sulphur had been a key part of the case against the suspect, one Timothy Holder, as he was a chemist who had ready access to the element. 

“Any mention of the locations of the crimes? Were there six?” The Doctor shook his head, but still had a pleased smile on his lips.

“No, only four locations this time, though if you pull up a map, I'm sure they would be the first four points of the star. Look at this, though,” he zoomed in on the image of the man being carted away by two police officers. Sherlock squinted, trying to make out the details in the rather blurry photograph. When he spotted what the Doctor was referring to, his eyebrows shot up, and he let out a quiet “oh!”

“That is interesting,” Sherlock breathed. John, Amy, and Rory were all still leaning over Sherlock's shoulders, squinting at the photo and trying to find what he and the Doctor were talking about. “The tie pin,” Sherlock explained, “It has the hexagram symbol carved into it, within two concentric circles. Does the TARDIS have connection to the internet, Doctor?” It seemed far-fetched, but then, so did most of the Doctor's existence.

“No,” the Doctor answered, then quickly continued, “Well, yes. It has the internet, but not just the internet. It's connected to the extranet, which includes the internet. I don't think your laptop could handle that, however. I’ll show you how to set up a more simple connection.” Sherlock held out his hand, and a very puzzled-looking John passed over the laptop. The concept of an extranet was certainly something that Sherlock would like to explore, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Once the Doctor finished using the sonic screwdriver on the computer, Sherlock folded himself into a seated position on the floor, balanced the computer on his knees, and quickly began a search for anything related to Timothy Holder, Normal Illinois, and the hexagram. 

The buzz of conversation between the other occupants of the TARDIS was ignored as he focused the entirety of his attention on every search result and reference that came up. He scanned through several more news articles, read in entirety the court transcripts from the murder trial, and studied every photograph that he could find of the man. This led him to several other people who were associated with Mr. Holder, including one gentleman who appeared in no less than three pictures with him, and who wore an identical tie pin. He pulled and grasped at little threads, pulling them all together and seeing where they fit. Once he finally had an accurate picture, he closed the laptop, and leaped to his feet and proclaimed,

“I know where we need to go!” Three heads swivelled around in his direction, John, Rory, and Amy all looking at him with startled expressions. “Where did the Doctor go?” he asked. Amy's eyebrows rose, but John gave her a look that meant _don't worry, this is normal._

“You've been sitting there for almost two hours, Sherlock,” John explained, “the Doctor seems to have as much difficulty staying still as you do, and ran off to god knows where, saying something about laps in the pool. He should be back soon. What've you found?” Sherlock began to pace through the console room, unable to keep himself still as he explained.

“Timothy Holder, in addition to not being a serial murderer, belonged to a secret society that existed in the United States in the 1940s. Well, secret if you're an idiot and haven't bothered looking,” John rolled his eyes, “It took some digging, but I found another man, Grant Mitchell, who was also a member. Now _he_ wasn't nearly as newsworthy as Mr. Holder was, but I did manage to find mention of him in an article about a baseball game in 1949, and I found his death certificate-” John grabbed his arm, interrupting his thought process. Sherlock met his eyes, questioning.

“That's brilliant, Sherlock,” John said quietly, “But it would be fine of you just told us what this society is and where we're headed.” Sherlock nodded once. He knew that he had a tendency to go a little overboard with the explanations, and while it was fun to show the connections he had made that others wouldn't, he recognized that it wasn't always the most expedient or most welcome way of doing things. He gave John a short nod _thank you_ and received a little _it's no trouble_ smile in return. The Doctor chose that moment to re-enter the console room, dressed in a different but very similar suit, hair damp. 

“You've got something,” he said. It wasn't a question. Sherlock knew that his exhilaration was written all over his face and posture.

“We need to go to Lebanon, Kansas,” Sherlock announced, “We're looking for The Men of Letters.”

-x-

 

Dean was tired. And sore. And more than a little grumpy. What was supposed to be a nice, easy ghost hunt had turned into a complete shit storm of epic proportions, including one extremely narrow escape from an overzealous cop with a policy of “shoot first, ask questions later.” All in all, it had been an awful three days, and he was really looking forward to getting back to the bunker, taking a shower and drinking a cold beer (simultaneously) and then sleeping for a solid fourteen hours. Judging by the way Sam was slumped down in the seat next to him, it was probably a shared sentiment.

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean nudged his brother with an elbow, “We’re almost there. You gotta stay awake to make sure _I_ stay awake.” Sam grunted, but pulled himself up a little bit straighter.

“Where are we?” he asked, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Just past the border from Nebraska. Man, that sucked. I feel like one big bruise covered in bruises.” Sam gave a wry, sleepy smile.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. For the ghosts of a couple of hippies, those two sure packed a punch.” The angry red and purple mark on Sam’s jaw was testament to that fact. Dean was pretty sure he had a matching one on his forehead. He pulled his thoughts back to the road as their exit approached, and turned the Impala onto a rarely-used dirt road. It still gave him a weird feeling, pulling up to a place where they would stay for more than just a couple of nights while on a hunting trip. It was nice. He blinked and stretched his face to keep his eyes open for the last fifteen minutes of driving, and sighed his relief when they pulled up to the overhang where they kept Baby while they were here. Sam had dozed off again.

“Hey, wake up,” Dean said, prodding Sam before opening his door and sliding out. Both men dragged themselves to the bunker’s entrance, and Dean leaned against the wall while Sam unlocked the door. Inside, it was bright and warm, and Dean decided that the shower could wait until after he had crashed for a few hours. 

“Night Dean,” Sam mumbled, shuffling off to his bedroom.

“Night Sammy,” Dean replied, heading for his own bed. He didn’t even bother with changing his clothes, simply shucking his shirt and pants and crawling between the sheets. _Oh yeah, this memory foam stuff is awesome_ he thought, and then his brain was quiet as he fell rapidly into sleep. 

-x-

Dean woke up feeling grimy and sore, but considerably less miserable. He rolled out of bed and headed for the shower, after glancing at the clock and deciding that having a beer at 10:30 AM was maybe pushing things just a little. 

The shower was excellent. He had no idea how the Men of Letters had managed to not only secretly hook up to the sewer system, but also have fantastic water pressure, and he didn’t really care. All he cared about, in that particular moment, was hot water and a good scrubbing. The sound of the water hitting the tiles around him was almost enough to drown out his own brain. Almost. He still couldn’t help worrying about Sam, and these damned trials, and where the hell Cas had disappeared to. _Ugh,_ he groaned, and pushed his face under the spray. This entire situation was completely fucked up, and he would give just about anything to have some sort of break. Maybe a vacation, somewhere warm and free of monsters. _Yeah, like that’ll ever happen._ He finished rinsing his hair and turned off the taps, then grabbed a towel and headed back to his room to get dressed in clothes that didn’t reek of blood, dirt, and pot smoke. _Freakin’ hippies._

Sam was already sitting at the table by the time Dean got there, hair wet and hanging limply around his face, with a bowl of some sort of cereal in front of him.

“Hey, how’re you doing?” Dean asked, trying to sound casual. Sam shrugged his shoulders,

“A little sore, but no worse than usual. You?” Dean knew his brother was lying, but didn’t push it.

“Same. I think I’m gonna have a pretty solid shiner by week’s end. It’ll make me look badass and rugged. I’ll be a hit with the ladies.” Sam chuckled softly, and turned his attention back to the cereal. Dean eyed it with disgust, and went to the kitchen to find something more substantial for breakfast. He was still rummaging through the cupboards when Sam shouted from the main room, and Dean went running.

There was a very strange noise coming from outside, sort of like a car trying and failing to start, fading in and out. Sam had grabbed the nearest weapon – the katana mounted on the east wall, and Dean looked around for anything that he could use, before remembering that he still had the demon-killing knife hanging off of his belt. Duh. 

“What the hell is that?” Dean asked, joining Sam to stand on either side of the front door, “And how the hell did it find this place? I thought we were impregnable!” 

“Impregnable just means things can’t get in,” Sam explained in a hurried whisper, “Obviously something managed to find us. What makes a noise like that? Dragon? Some sort of ghost car?” Dean was about to say something snarky when the noise stopped, and the bunker went quiet once again. Both brothers quirked an eyebrow at each other questioningly. They waited for one heartbeat, two... five, and then;

knock knock knock

It sounded like somebody knocking on the door, how very civilized. _What the hell do we do?_ Sam's frantic expression asked. _How the hell should I know?_ Dean answered with his own face. A voice called from outside.

“Hello! Men of Letters? Is there anyone home?” Well, that was... different. Monsters didn’t usually knock and ask so politely. The guy sounded British. Were British monsters more polite? If so, then Crowley must be the exception to the rule. Dean knew better than to trust some unknown person, and he and Sam remained silent, weapons drawn. There were murmurs of people talking just outside, and then another knock, this time more forceful. _Great, there’s more than one._ Sam cocked his head, listening, and then held up three fingers, mouthing “Three?” Dean shrugged and shook his head, then said wordlessly back “Four? Not sure.” The same voice returned.

“We’re not demons! You don’t need to be afraid! Is there anyone in there?” Dean repositioned his grip on the knife. Way too many people had tried the whole “we’re safe, please trust us” routine for it to have any effect. Several more seconds passed, and then there was a barely audible whirring noise near the lock. Dean met Sam’s determined look with one of his own, and braced himself to swing at whatever came through the door. The whirring stopped, and the lock clicked, and then the door swung open.

There was a flurry of movement. Sam tackled the first figure through the door, throwing them to the ground with the full weight of his not-inconsiderable frame, and Dean grabbed whoever came in next, shoving them up against the wall, dagger against their throat. He found himself staring into a pair of impossibly seafoam-coloured eyes, which were looking at him as though he was the most stupid person in the world. The reason for this look was made abundantly clear when Dean felt the barrel of a gun come to rest against the back of his head.

“Let him go,” an extremely calm-sounding male voice said from behind him. This voice also had a British accent, but wasn’t the same person who had knocked. Dean was reluctant to let the first man go, but the soft click of the pistol’s safety being pulled back was enough to make him reconsider. He held his hands up, knife still against his right palm. “Drop the knife,” the gunman said, still eerily calm, and Dean ground his teeth together, but complied. Sam had also backed off from the person he’d gone for, and Dean heard the clatter of the katana hitting the floor.

“Hey! Who said you could bring a gun?” Sam’s target asked, his voice indignant, “No guns, John! Put it down!” Dean felt the man – John – waver, and then the safety was clicked back into place, the gun withdrawing from his skull. He whirled around to face the speaker, stepping smoothly to the side while doing so in order to avoid putting his back to the man he’d pinned to the wall. 

The two people behind him were very different from each other. One was short, with dirty blond hair, a dark jacket, and blue eyes clouded with anger. The other was taller, gangly, with floppy brown hair, and was wearing some sort of professor costume, complete with ridiculous bow-tie. “That’s better,” the professor said, a smile blooming on his face, “Now, let’s try this again, but without all the shouting and sharp objects. I’m the Doctor, these are John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, and those are Rory Williams and Amelia Pond.” Dean spun around fast enough to make his head spin, and found two more people standing just outside the door to the bunker, one man in a jeans-and-sweater ensemble, and one seriously attractive redhead wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a leather jacket. The “Doctor” continued, “We’re here looking for the Men of Letters. There’ve been a string of murders in London, and we need their help. Are you them?” Sam's mouth was hanging open ever so slightly, and Dean was certain his own expression was similar.

“Okay, look buddy,” Dean began, “We have no idea who you are, or _what_ you are, or, for that matter, how you found this place-” The tall, dark-haired one – Sherlock – interrupted him.

“We've already told you who we are, and we found this place because I'm not an idiot.” Dean glared at him, as did, surprisingly, the man named John.

“Sherlock, you’re not exactly helping,” John hissed at the other man. This was all getting way too confusing. Sam stepped in, as always, to defuse the situation.

“Okay, look, you’ve obviously got us at a disadvantage here. We don’t know who you are – beyond your names – and you’ve shown up unannounced at a bunker that’s supposed to be undetectable and extremely well-hidden. For all we know you’ve been sent here by Crowley, or-” Dean interrupted,

“Well, except that they all walked through the front door without the Devil’s Trap giving them any trouble.”

“Right,” Sam continued, “But considering that you’ve broken and entered-” This time it was the Doctor who cut Sam off.

“Sonic-ed and entered.”

“Whatever. Entered without permission, you can understand why we aren’t exactly welcoming. Now, how about everyone calm down, we all put our respective weapons aside, and we can talk about this.” Dean wasn’t crazy about the idea of just letting everyone in, but considering that he’d already dropped his knife, and everyone was pretty much already in anyway, he supposed it was the only real option. The Doctor looked pleased, but everyone else seemed rather wary. Sam gestured towards the long table down the middle of the room in invitation, and the Doctor strode over and relaxed into a seat. Amy and Rory followed, albeit more hesitantly. Sam joined them. John and Sherlock – who the hell named their kid Sherlock? – didn’t move from where they stood, facing Dean, who also remained stationary. 

“After you,” Dean said, sweeping his arm with exaggerated courtesy and a pinched smile. He had no desire to leave his back exposed to the pair, who had both shown themselves willing to do both him and Sam injury. John gave him a mistrustful stare, and Sherlock looked at him as though he was an absolute moron, but they both complied. Dean sat next to Sam across the table from the visitors, making sure that he and his brother were close in case the interlopers went back on their word.

“Okay,” Sam started, “Let’s take it from the top. Who are you? Not just your names, either. We need to know what you are.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Dean fixed him with another death glare. Once again, the hyperactive Doctor was the first to speak.

“I’m the Doctor. I’m a Time Lord. I travel through space and time on my ship, the TARDIS.” Dean’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t say anything. He’s had enough encounters with time travel to know it was perfectly possible. As for space aliens – well, pretty much nothing would surprise him at this point. The red-head was seated next to the Doctor, and spoke next.

“I’m Amy. I’m a human. I travel with the Doctor sometimes, and the rest of the time I’m... well, between jobs, at the moment. Rory is my husband.” The couple smiled at each other, and Dean found his own eyes rolling. Rory picked up where Amy had left off.

“I’m Rory. Also human, and a nurse. And, uh, what she said, for the rest of it.” Sherlock was leaned back in his chair, and was staring at the ceiling. Dean had the urge to throw something at him. John prodded him with a finger, and he leaned forward again to speak, after giving an exaggerated sigh.

“I am Sherlock Holmes. I’m human, obviously, and am the world’s only consulting detective. I’m who the police come to when they are unable to solve crimes. Which is fairly often, considering how incredibly stupid most law enforcement-” John jabbed him with an elbow, and he fell silent with a petulant pout.

“And I’m John Watson,” the last man said, “Doctor and ex-army captain. I work with Sherlock, and... blog about it.” He looked slightly embarrassed by this last point. Sam nodded, obviously satisfied by all of the answers. Dean objected,

“What, you’re just gonna accept all that at face value?” he received exasperated looks from all present, but continued anyway, “Well, fine. You be trusting and stupid all you want. I’m getting the silver, iron, holy water, and borax.” His brother gave him the patented Sam Winchester Bitch Face, but said nothing when Dean grabbed the aforementioned items from a shelf behind them. It was, in his opinion, always a good idea to keep these sorts of things handy. “Hands out.” He ordered the five people seated across from him, and each placed a hand face down on the table. He started with the Doctor. Touching the small silver key to the man’s skin did nothing, nor did the iron bar. The splash of holy water was met with nothing other than a soft chuckle, and the Borax simply made the man’s nose wrinkle in curiosity as he murmured “Laundry powder?” Satisfied, Dean repeated the steps on each of the other four, who each passed unscathed. While not completely fool-proof, the tests somewhat assuaged his fear that the interlopers were werewolves, fairies, demons, leviathans, or the like. When he sat back in his seat, his shoulders relaxed minutely. John’s mouth quirked up in one corner.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a bit paranoid, mate?” Dean gave a wry smile.

“Little bit,” he said, “Better than ending up monster chow.” Sherlock rolled his eyes once more. “You should be careful, or they'll get stuck that way.” Dean added, earning a sneer. 

“Monster chow, really?” Sherlock drawled, “This is ridiculous. Can we please just get on with this so that I can go back to my investigation like a sane person?” This last question was directed at the Doctor, who pursed his lips. 

“You just be thankful I didn’t do the test that involves slicing your hand open with a knife, Nigel.” Dean countered, with a cold smile. John was watching their back-and-forth banter with an amused twinkle in his eye. 

“Oh, I wish you had tried,” Sherlock replied, arching an eyebrow, “It would have been more interesting than your pathetic attempts at deflection through colloquialism.” Dean clenched his hand into a fist, but held back the urge to pop the smug bastard one. Not that he didn’t deserve it. This time the Doctor was the one to step in.

“I can assure you, we pose neither of you any threat. Hmm… oh yes! There was a man who offered me assistance back in 1996 when this happened… what has his name… Rufus! Rufus can assure you that I am who I say I am.” This was followed by a cheery nod. Dean’s felt his shoulders sag.

“Sorry to be the one to tell you this, but uh, Rufus, he’s… not around anymore. He died a couple of years ago, helping us on a hunt.” Sam’s expression was somber, and the Doctor's face fell.

“Ah. I’m very sorry to hear that. My condolences. He seemed like a good man.” Dean nodded solemnly, and Sam steered the conversation back around to the topic at hand,

“You said something about a murder investigation?” All eyes shifted expectantly to Sherlock. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock sighed before launching into an explanation.

“There have been six victims in London, but this is not the first incident of this happening. All young women, all found dead of apparent heart failure, all having had intercourse the night before. No signs of poison or illness, no signs of struggle or forced entry.” Sam and Dean shared a brief look before Sam said,

“Well, it sounds a little suspicious, but I’m not sure why you came to find us specifically. There are plenty of hunters in the UK-” Sherlock cut him off with a raised hand.

“Believe me, if I could have avoided this little trip, I would have. Unfortunately, the unusual circumstances surrounding these deaths were not our reason for visiting the no-doubt _charming_ state of Kansas. Do you have a computer and internet connection?” Sam blinked, and then pulled his laptop out from the bag under the table, where it was kept in case of the need for a hasty exit. Sherlock nodded imperiously as he took the computer, and John glared at his friend, and murmured an embarrassed “thank you” to Sam. Sherlock opened the computer, glanced around the room thoughtfully, and then began typing.

“Hey!” Sam protested, “How did you guess my password?” The dark-haired Brit just gave an exasperated sigh, and continued whatever he was doing. John spoke up.

“Sorry, he just… does that. I’ve completely given up trying to keep him out of my electronics. Er… I didn’t catch your name.” 

“Sam Winchester, and this is my brother, Dean.” John and Sam shook hands, the former’s earlier icy demeanour having completely vanished now that nobody was holding a knife to anyone’s throat. John held out his hand to Dean, who hesitated for a moment, and then took the proffered hand and shook. For a small man, his grip was confident, and he held himself like a military man. Dean could even see himself liking the guy, as long as he didn’t end up trying to kill anybody. The round of handshakes continued with the Doctor, Amy, and Rory. Sherlock ignored them in favour of continuing whatever he was doing with the laptop. 

“Have a look,” he said, turning the computer so that Sam and Dean could see the screen. There were two windows open, each with a map up. One was Atlanta, Georgia, the other, London, England. Six locations were highlighted on the first map, and three on the second, and Sherlock had drawn lines to each point, forming a now-familiar shape.

“Oh,” Sam breathed.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean muttered incredulously, “What the hell does it mean?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

“We were hoping you could tell us.” Sam looked thoughtful, already trying to figure out what could be behind the deaths, and why the Men of Letters might be involved. Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. This was exactly what he needed. More crap being flung at them from every direction. 

“We’re gonna need more info,” Dean said, resigned, “Maybe you should start from the top.”


	8. Stakeouts and Stalkers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Sam travel to London with the Doctor, Amy, Rory, John, and Sherlock, and put into action their plan to catch the incubus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my love to my wonderful beta, [Angelassbutt](http://archiveofourown.org/users/angelassbutt)! Any mistakes are my own, as are any British issues.  
> Please note, when from the POV of an American (such as Dean) the appropriate American terms will be used (such as "fries" instead of "chips"). The spelling, however, will remain Canadian. Because otherwise my brain will implode.

John had decided that the Winchester brothers were alright, now that they weren’t trying to slit anyone’s throat open with great bloody swords. Sam was obviously an intelligent young man, though he seemed tired and was desperately in need of a haircut, and the fact that he was nearly a foot taller than John was disconcerting. Dean held himself in a way that John knew only too well, carrying far too much on his shoulders for a man who couldn’t be much more than thirty. They were both alert and listened intently to the details that Sherlock explained about the case. At the mention of sulphur, the brothers had exchanged a look, and the information about all of the victims being virgins had made them both nod, obviously they had some sort of idea as to what was behind the murders. When Sherlock had finished his exposition, they had taken no time at all to grab several books off of the many shelves surrounding the room, and had pulled out a battered old journal. John felt a sinking feeling in his gut when he noticed Sherlock looking at the latter intently. 

“How did he die, your father?” Sherlock asked, making John wince. Both Winchesters looked up sharply. 

“How did you-” Sherlock didn’t even bother to let Sam finish before launching into an explanation. 

“The journal is written by a man, as evidenced by the handwriting. The wear on the corners and cover show that it has been used for at least twenty-five years, if not longer. It is not a child’s journal, so obviously did not originally belong to either of you, yet you carry it with reverence, so it obviously has sentimental significance. It belonged to someone you were close with, a male authority figure, could be an uncle, but more likely to be a father, considering the way you treat it. There are no fresh pages, haven’t been for at least five years, possibly more – whoever the journal belonged to is incapable of writing more, through either illness or death. Judging by your occupation, and the scars you both bear, yours is not a lifestyle that lends itself to great longevity, so, dead. What happened?” John hid his pained expression in his hand. God, the man had less compassion than a garden gnome. Sam’s eyes were wide, but Dean looked furious. 

“Does that make you feel good about yourself,” Dean spat, “Bringing up people's pain to show off? My father died saving my life, so how about you take your little magic tricks and shove them up-” 

“Dean!” Sam cut off his brother, a restraining hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looked confused, and his eyes flickered over to John. Although it may not have shown on his face, John knew that his friend felt uncomfortable for having made the brothers upset, so he gave a small nod of encouragement, as if to say _go on, you know what you need to do._

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up an uncomfortable topic,” Sherlock said stiffly. There was a moment of awkward silence before he continued, “Perhaps if you point me in the right direction, I can help look through the books...” he trailed off, and John patted a hand briefly on his knee, offering reassurance that apologizing had been the right thing to do. 

“It's fine,” Dean said with a sigh, “But I don't know if you can be much help with the books, I mean-” Once again, Sam interrupted. 

“Hey, get this,” he pushed the journal over so that Dean could see what he was looking at. Sherlock leaned forward, reading upside down. “Dad ran into a couple of virgin murders in Idaho, in '99. Not the same numbers, or in the same pattern, but the other stuff fits. The sulphur, the apparently-consensual sex, the unexplained heart failures.” Dean raised an eyebrow, and Sam answered the unspoken question, “It was an incubus.” Sherlock made a snorting noise. The Doctor, however, looked intrigued. 

“You've encountered a variety of... other-world beings?” he asked. Sam and Dean both nodded. 

“Ghosts, demons, shapeshifters, vampires, and werewolves, to name a few,” Dean answered with a cheeky smile. John's eyes widened, and Sherlock was starting to look perturbed. The Doctor looked pensive for a moment, and then spoke, 

“Hmm, could be possible with... Maybe some sort of trans-dimensional portals, with power drawn from language and beliefs...” he muttered, causing Sherlock to quirk an eyebrow. The room was silent for a moment as everyone puzzled over the information, then Sherlock's mouth formed into the round “O” that John recognized as his “everything suddenly makes sense” face. 

“Remarkable!” the detective breathed, “Quantum physics and ancient myth in harmony. It's brilliant!” he turned back to Sam and Dean, who both looked as confused as John, Amy, and Rory. “I apologize for doubting you. It was entirely too obvious.” John was flabbergasted. Two apologies from Sherlock in less than ten minutes? This had to be some sort of record. 

“Quantum physics?” Rory asked. The Doctor nodded, beaming, 

“Yes! Yes, of course!” he crowed, “Not magic! Science! Other dimensions, running alongside this one, dipping and weaving together, even meeting at certain points. It is magic, but it's not magical!” Dean shook his head, and leaned over to John. 

“Any chance you can translate for one of these two?” he asked in a stage whisper. John shook his head. 

“I've known the Doctor for all of four hours, and while Sherlock may be my best friend, half the time he may as well be speaking Mandarin for all that I understand him,” he paused, and then added, “Sometimes he literally does, actually. Speak Mandarin.” Dean gave an amused huff of breath. Sam seemed to be grasping what was being said with slightly more success. 

“So what we perceive as magic is more... interaction between more than one dimension?” Sam asked. Sherlock and the Doctor both nodded, and Sam echoed the action minutely, eyes shifting back and forth as though reading a textbook inside his head. “I... guess it makes sense. I'd never thought of it like that.” Amy spoke up, 

“Well, this little lesson in quantum mechanics is fascinating, but what about the incubus?” John chuckled. It was nice to have someone else to help steer the geniuses back on track. He wouldn't put it past either Sherlock or the Doctor to get completely caught up in this new revelation for the next few days, but there were more pressing matters at hand. Sam looked chastened and turned back to the Journal. 

“Right, well, from what dad figured out, they feed on human souls by... having sex with them. And they have a thing for virgins.” 

“What is with monsters and virgins?” Dean asked, “It's like they're not even trying to avoid the cliches!” John's shoulders shook in a silent chuckle. 

“It is rather _medieval,_ isn't it?” Sherlock asked, smirking, “Why only women, though? Surely the male 'soul' is of equal value?” Sam gave a one-shouldered shrug. 

“Could be because incubi are male. succubi are the female ones. Does it matter? We know what we're up against.” 

“So how do we kill it?” Dean directed at Sam. The Doctor looked appalled. 

“Kill it? Who said anything about killing it? We should _talk_ to it, find out what it wants, why it's here.” Dean and Sam both looked at the Doctor as though he was mad (well, madder than usual), but Sherlock spoke up. 

“I am forced to agree, at least with the second sentiment. From what you've said, the previous cases of... death by incubus did not involve these numbers, or this pattern. If we simply kill it, we will have no way to know _why_ it is acting this way, what purpose it's serving.” John nodded, and was about to voice his agreement when Sherlock's phone began ringing. The detective rolled his eyes, but answered swiftly. “What is it?” There was a pause, and then, “The same building? Any new evidence? Right. Thank you Detective Inspector.” He rang off. “There's a new victim.” 

“Shit,” John swore, “Was she from the same building as the last one?” Sherlock's eyes were bright as he answered. 

“Yes, _he_ was.” Sam's eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. 

“He? You're sure?” Sherlock's expression couldn't have been more disdainful if he'd tried. 

“Unless Detective Inspector Lestrade has suddenly become more blind than usual, or Anderson is in charge of forensics again, yes, I'm reasonably sure. It appears we have an equal-opportunity serial murderer on our hands. How very forward-thinking.” Amy smothered a laugh in her hand, and Rory was biting his bottom lip to hold back a smile. 

“Well, gents,” the Doctor directed to the Winchesters, “You're the monster experts. How do we proceed?” Dean and Sam shared a brief look before nodding and turning back to the Doctor. 

“Easy,” said Dean with a dark grin, “We set up a trap and wait for it to come to us.” 

-x- 

Dean had been somewhat wary upon realizing that, in order to go to where the Incubus was, they'd have to go to England. He wasn't fond of flying. He wasn't _scared_ of it, per se, he just preferred _not_ to hurl across the planet thousands of feet in the air in a metal tube full of highly combustible jet fuel, if given the choice. This was why, when the Doctor (who apparently had no name beyond “Doctor”) had said that they wouldn't need to go anywhere near either airplane or airport, he'd been thrilled. That is, until they'd stepped outside of the bunker and Dean had seen what the Doctor _was_ suggesting they transport themselves in. 

“Oh, hell no,” he said, looking at the blue phone booth with “Police Public Call Box” written along the top. “If you expect me to travel through space or whatever in a wooden box, you're crazier than I thought you were.” Sam, who was carrying a bag of weapons and supplies, also looked sceptical. 

“Is it a portal or something?” he asked. The Doctor's smile stretched from ear to ear. 

“Or something.” He reached forward and swung the door open, then stepped through, allowing Dean and Sam to follow. Unwilling to let Sam go first into the unknown situation, Dean led, and was promptly knocked forward when he stopped abruptly once over the threshold and Sam walked into his back. Both brothers stood in awe for a moment as the Doctor proclaimed proudly, “Welcome to the TARDIS!” Dean's mouth was hanging open, and he quickly popped his head back outside, earning bemused looks from the rest of the party, before pulling himself together enough to choke out, 

“It's – it's...” 

“It's bigger on the inside!” Sam finished, eyes round with wonder as he took in the large room they stood in. Sherlock, John, Amy and Rory followed them in, and manoeuvred around the brothers to join the Doctor, who was bouncing gleefully on the balls of his feet. 

“I love it when they say that!” he cried, and spun around to face the round console in the middle of the room. Dean was still taking it all in. He had definitely had weird experiences before – recent incidences of a portal out of purgatory and a trip to 1940s Chicago came immediately to mind – but this would definitely be in the top ten. Sam looked like he felt pretty much the same. 

“Well, I gotta say, I'm impressed,” Dean admitted, “I'm still not sure how I feel about _flying_ in it, but-” 

“Her. Flying in _her_ ,” the Doctor said, and Dean was quick to correct himself. He could understand a man's love for his ride. 

“Her. I'm sure she flies like a dream-” he was once again cut off, this time by Rory, 

“More like a nightmare, the way he drives.” _Oh, that's comforting_. 

“Oh, that's comforting,” he voiced. The Doctor looked wounded. 

“I'd like to see _you_ try to fly her,” he grumbled at Rory. 

Sherlock's eyes lit up. “Can I try?” 

Dean held up his hands. That was enough of that. 

“Okay, look, I'll come with you to London, but there is no way in hell that I'm gonna be on board for anyone's first driving lessons. Teaching Sammy in the Impala was bad enough.” Sam threw him a dirty look, and Dean gave in to the impulse to reach up and ruffle his younger brother's hair. Sam just looked resigned. 

“Another time then, Sherlock,” the Doctor promised, causing a corner of Sherlock's mouth to slide upwards in a half-smile. “Now, as much as I would love to give you the full tour, we have a murderous incubus to catch! Please fold your trays into the upright position, keep your hands and arms inside the TARDIS at all times, and away we go!” With that, he threw a lever on the console, and Dean's entire world pitched sideways. 

-x- 

The trip to London is mercifully short. For all that the Doctor may have claimed to be an excellent driver, Dean's stomach was roiling with nerves by the time they came to a stop. 

“Is it always like that?” he whispered to Amy, who seemed to be much less disconcerted by the rocking, tilting movements of their voyage. 

“No, not always,” she answered in her charming accent, “Sometimes it's really quite gentle,” she flashed a devilish smile, “And sometimes it's so much worse.” 

“I heard that!” the Doctor yelled, stomping over. Amy's smile grew wider, and she poked the man in the arm with her elbow. 

“Oh, get over yourself,” she jibed good-naturedly, and the answering grumpy look didn't seem very sincere. The group gathered around. 

“So, what's the plan?” John asked, now very serious. Dean and Sherlock both started speaking at the same time. 

“We should split up-” 

“Obviously, we need to-” 

A brief glare was shared between the two men, before Dean made a mocking “oh no, please, after you” gesture. 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said pointedly, “We need to split up. Each group takes a building, the one where the latest victims were found, and the next point on the star. The being that is doing this isn't using force or technology to enter the buildings. It is invited in, and allowed willingly into the flats of his victims. We watch for a single man entering, and follow if we see one. I assume that you know of some way to incapacitate this creature?” The question was directed at Sam and Dean. He had to admit, it was exactly what Dean himself had been planning. It was still irritating that he hadn't been allowed to be the one to voice the plan, though. 

“Well, in theory, it should die like most monsters...” Sam began. Dean continued. 

“Stab it through the heart or chop of its head usually works. Most monsters have a difficult time doing much of anything without a head. As for taking it alive...” this he wasn’t entirely sure of. Capturing the things they hunted wasn’t usually a priority. There had been the occasional time when information had been needed, and they had taken something prisoner, but for the most part their job description was pretty simple: Kill or be killed. 

“Well, from what I read in the journal, salt should do nicely to incapacitate it. Beyond that, I think the traditional ‘knock it over the head and tie it up’ method should work pretty well,” Sam suggested. Dean nodded in agreement. Short, violent, and simple. He liked it. Sherlock and John also seemed to approve, judging by their short nods. The Doctor looked vaguely uncomfortable, but didn’t voice any dissension. Rory was the first to ask, 

“How should we split?” 

Thus followed a rather long and complex discussion about tactics and abilities. Dean, Sam, and John had the most experience with firearms, and divvied up shotguns full of rock salt between themselves. The Doctor had been vehemently opposed to the use of guns, but had stopped protesting when Sam explained that they were only loaded with salt, and wouldn’t actually kill anyone. Sherlock had wanted a gun, as well, but John had quickly vetoed that idea. If John didn’t trust Sherlock with a shotgun, Dean certainly didn’t, no matter how sulky the detective may have looked after being told no. Sherlock decided that he and John should be on separate teams, as they both had the most detective experience of the group. Or, in his words “I will certainly be able to pick out the suspect from actual building tenants and visitors, and John has the best chance out of the rest of you.” John had simply covered his face with his palm, and accepted the idea. Apparently Sherlock was always an ass. The Doctor suggested he go with Sam and John, as he would also be able to recognize something out of the ordinary. 

In the end, it was decided that Sam, John, and the Doctor would cover the building where the last two victims had been found, and Dean, Sherlock, Amy, and Rory would watch the next point on the star that had been drawn over the map of London. Amy had also proven to be fairly comfortable with a firearm, which had caused the Doctor to scowl, and Dean’s respect for her to grow. This left both groups with one hunter, two guns, a detective, and a medical expert. All told, it was a pretty even split, from what Dean could tell. Especially considering that Sam was large enough to easily equal two people. Now that they had that worked out, all that was left to do was head out into London. 

“What time is it here?” Sam asked, looking down at his watch. Everyone turned to the Doctor, who flicked several switches on the TARDIS console. 

“Ah, um, 4 pm on the 16th of October.” Sherlock and John both looked surprised. As far as Dean could tell, however, they were only about two hours earlier than they had been back in Kansas. He wondered briefly if he could phone himself in the past. 

“We missed a day!” John said. 

The Doctor grinned. “I know! Pretty close, eh?” 

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “What do you mean, ‘pretty close’? Do you usually miss by _more_ than a day?” he asked. The Doctor made a face that told Dean everything he needed to know. Great. With his luck, they’d end up back in Kansas sometime in the mid-50s without any money or decent music. 

“I never miss,” the Doctor sniffed indignantly, “Sometimes I just... take a detour. Now, we have at least two hours until we need to be anywhere, so how about we go find some food? I’d love some fish custard.” And with that, he bounded off to the door. Dean and Sam shared a look, as Sam mouth “fish custard?” Dean shrugged. Hell if he knew. 

They ended up only five streets away from the TARDIS, in a little hole-in-the-wall pub that smelled like everything in the kitchen was being fried. It was before the evening rush, so they were the only ones present aside from an old man watching soccer – _football,_ Dean mentally corrected himself – on the television above the bar. Never having been outside of North America before, Dean took in as much of London as he could, considering how rushed they were. He was most surprised by the double-decker buses. He’d always assumed those were just a television cliché, and not a real, common form of transportation. The seven of them had all crammed themselves around a table, and Dean had ordered a burger, sticking with what he could rely on to be mostly edible. Sam, probably trying to experience the culture, had ordered fish and chips. The Doctor had been given a very hard stare when he'd asked for fish fingers and custard, but their waitress had still written the order down on her little pad of paper. Everyone else had asked for one thing or another, save for Sherlock, who explained that he never ate while on a case. 

“You might want to fuel up,” Dean said while tucking into his burger, “Wouldn’t want to pass out in the middle of a fist fight with an incubus.” Sherlock scoffed, and John rolled his eyes. 

“Believe me,” the shorter man said after swallowing a mouthful of fries, “I’ve tried every argument you can think of, and then some. He says digestion takes too much brain power.” Dean shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. The guy was obviously a little out there, so Dean simply ignored him, and inhaled his food. The conversation around the table was lively, and difficult to follow. John was asking Rory about moons made of jam, and the Doctor was talking with Sherlock about something to do with temporal signatures. Dean turned to Amy. She was a fox, there was no doubt, but she was married, so he wouldn’t push. A little harmless flirting, however, wouldn’t hurt anyone. 

“So, how’d you end up caught up in all this? You seem more the 'sexy underwear model' type than the 'running around after monsters' type.” Amy scowled at him, and he held up his hands. “No offence.” She rolled her eyes. 

“I ended up here, on this case, because of a slight miscalculation in destination on the Doctor’s part. As for chasing monsters... I’ve seen my fair share of those. Even fought some vampires one time in sixteenth century Venice.” Dean’s eyebrows rose. 

“Cool,” he said, then paused in thought for a moment. “Hey, do you have any cousins or something in the states? Maybe a chick named Charlie?” Amy shook her head, looking puzzled. “Never mind, you just remind me of someone.” He smiled, and returned his attention to the large mound of fries still left on his plate. He had to hand it to the Brits, they sure knew how to deep fry a potato. 

Once dinner was finished, they returned to the TARDIS and got down to business. The police box was designated their emergency meeting point, and the Doctor explained that it wouldn’t allow in anyone “unauthorized”. Dean fished a pair of walkie-talkies out of Sam’s bag, keeping one and giving the other to Sam. The Doctor came over with some sort of pen. 

“May I?” Dean raised an eyebrow, but held out the walkie-talkie. The Doctor pointed the pen-thing at it, and a little green light lit up on the end, accompanied by a whirring noise. 

“Hey!” Dean cried, recognizing the sound, “That’s how you got through the lock on the bunker! What is that thing?” 

“Sonic screwdriver,” the Doctor answered, “Comes in handy. I just boosted the signal so we’ll be able to communicate no matter where we end up. Just, ah, don’t hold down the ‘talk’ button and leave it pointed at any small animals for too long.” He made a disgusted face. Dean was far too interested in the sonic screwdriver to be bothered by the prospect of exploding rodents. He’d have to see if there was an extra one somewhere in the TARDIS, later. It would definitely be useful in shortening long lock-picking detours. And maybe the odd late-night morgue break-in. 

Sam and Dean each grabbed their shotguns, and John tucked a modified handgun into the back of his jeans. It would shoot rock salt rounds, same as the shotgun shells. Amy also got a handgun, but opted for a leg holster. Each group got a length of rope, a pair of handcuffs (Sherlock supplied his own – Dean didn’t want to know) and a dagger for each person. 

“The knives may not kill it,” Sam explained, “But it never hurts to have one handy.” Rory had protested, but Sam had assured him that it was mostly in case they got into trouble and had to escape, not for doing injury to anyone. Dean had bitten his tongue, knowing better than to explain to the nurse how many monsters he and Sam had killed between the two of them. There were some things you just didn’t share with normal people (normal being a relative term in this case). 

Weapons distributed, walkie-talkie frequencies set, cell numbers exchanged (after a quick adjustment on the Winchesters’ phones via the sonic screwdriver), and plans of action in place, the two groups spilt and headed for their respective destinations. 

-x- 

Sherlock scowled out into the darkness. He didn’t actually mind stakeouts. He could be infinitely patient, although most people would probably have keeled over laughing at that notion – a patient Sherlock. It was true, he had no patience for fools, and went mad with boredom when there was nothing to do, but when it came to a case – to sitting like a spider waiting for a fly to stumble into his web – he had a surprising rein on his usual need for movement and stimulation. 

No, he wasn’t scowling because he was impatient, he was scowling because of the man crouched next to him in the bushes that they had selected as the best vantage point from which to watch the building of flats across the street. Dean was _not_ very good at being patient, judging by the way he was shifting from foot to foot, and he kept glancing around himself as though looking for something to do. 

“Would you at least _try_ to keep still?” Sherlock hissed. Dean at least had the sense to look sheepish. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispered back, “It’s been four hours. My feet are going numb. I hate waiting. It makes me antsy.” 

“You don’t say,” Sherlock responded dryly. 

“Would you both be quiet?” Amy breathed, fixing them with a glare, “You sound like children!” Dean hunched his shoulders, and Sherlock tossed his head haughtily. They were all relatively silent for several minutes, until Rory spoke up. 

“Have you ever gone after an incubus before?” The question was obviously directed at Dean. 

“No, but Sam and I ran into a siren in Iowa one time,” Dean answered, “They’re more shape-shifter-y, and get you to kill someone you love, as opposed to stealing souls. The basic concept is similar, though. Sex monster.” Amy bit her lip over a giggle. 

“So... there are lots of... monsters, just walking around?” Rory ventured. Dean nodded grimly. 

“Too many. I mean, sometimes there are some good ones, but...” he trailed off, and Sherlock’s eyes sharpened. What Dean was saying was certainly intriguing, but what he _wasn’t_ saying was doubly so. He’d lost someone, or was missing someone, Sherlock needed more information to be sure. 

“You’ve met some of the good ones.” He said. 

It wasn’t a question, but Dean answered anyway, voice gruff in a failed attempt to conceal emotion. “Yeah, I have.” 

Sherlock wanted to learn more, but his attention was immediately shifted to the entrance of the building, where a young man had paused. “That may be him,” Sherlock whispered, and the other three swivelled their heads around to stare at the vague shadow of the man’s silhouette. 

“How can you tell?” Amy asked. 

“He’s reading the list of names, not looking for keys, so he obviously doesn’t live in the building. He needs someone else to buzz him through the front door,” Sherlock explained in his usual rapid-fire style, “It’s awfully late, but he’s not carrying an overnight bag, or any bag at all. He could have already left his luggage at a friend’s flat and gone out earlier, but they why does he need to search through the building directory? It’s unlikely that he’s staying the night with any of the tenants. He could be here to pick someone up, though without a car or cab that doesn’t seem likely either. He could also be here to murder some unsuspecting idiot and consume their life force, or whatever it is incubi do. Regardless, he’s a suspect. One of us should follow him.” Three pairs of eyes were staring at him, agog. “Oh please, any imbecile could figure that out. Why doesn’t anyone ever just _look?_ ” he asked of no one in particular. 

Rory recovered first, just as the suspect was buzzed through the main entrance. “Okay... so, who should go in after him?” Dean leaned forward to volunteer. 

“I will. You guys stay out here in case someone else shows up. I’ll call you if it’s our guy. You call me if there’s any trouble down here. And remember, these things can’t be reasoned with, and don’t have any good nature to appeal to.” With that, he left to creep in through the stairwell fire exit that they had jimmied open earlier. 

-x- 

Dean snuck into the apartment building, and crouched down in the back stairwell, all while thanking the old London apartment building for not having any sort of complex security system, which would have made following the guy a whole lot harder. As it was, he easily slipped through the main stair door and crept along behind the man, who had chosen the stairs over elevator. The guy seemed nervous. He kept darting his eyes around, and was rubbing his palms against his pants as though trying to wipe away sweat. He could hardly have looked more suspicious if he’d tried. _Man, if this guy is convincing women to sleep with him left, right and centre, he must have some serious tricks up his sleeve... or in his pants,_ Dean thought. 

He slunk along behind the man, trailing a little more than a floor below on the winding staircase, placing each step with care to avoid making any noise. As he neared the third floor, he heard the stairwell door open. _Fourth floor it is, then._ He hurried the rest of the way up, and reached the door just before it swung closed. 

The sketchy guy was standing several feet down in the hallway, hovering outside a door, looking like he was about to piss himself with fear. He knelt down in front of the door, and Dean took his chance, darting out and grabbing the man by the collar, then whirling around and hurling him up against the wall, knife to his throat. The creep let out a terrified squeak. 

“Don’t hurt me! I’m sorry! I’ll leave! I’m sorry!” the man babbled. Dean drew the knife back slightly. 

“What are you doing sneaking around in here?” The man cringed, and slowly lifted a hand, in which was crushed an envelope. Dean grabbed it, keeping the knife against the guy’s throat. 

There was dampness on the envelope from the man’s sweaty palm, and the writing on it was large and looping: Angela. 

“What the hell is this?” The suspect’s eyes were open as widely as they could go as he stared at Dean while stammering, 

“I just – I just miss her! I know I’m supposed to stay away, I didn’t want to violate the res-restraining order, but I c-couldn’t not at least try! I-I-I love her!” Tears started rolling down the man’s cheeks, and Dean stepped back, disgusted. 

“Seriously? You snuck into an apartment building at quarter to one to leave a love letter at the door of the apartment of a girl who’s filed a restraining order against you?” he hissed, then shook his head. “Get the hell out of here before I call the cops. And leave Angela alone.” Dean may have had no idea who Angela was, but it was safe to say she didn’t want this creep hanging around in the hallway outside her apartment. The man nodded pitifully, and practically tripped over his own feet as he hurried back to the stairs. Dean looked at the envelope in his hand with distaste, and tried to decide what to do with it. On the one hand, the poor woman in the apartment he stood in front of obviously didn't want any contact from the guy. On the other, she should probably know that Loser McStalkypants wasn’t following the letter or spirit of his restraining order. Dean sighed and grabbed a pen out of his pocket and wrote on the envelope. 

**Saw a sketchy dude trying to leave this at your door. Told him to beat it, but figured you should know he was here in case he comes back.**

****

He slipped the letter into the crack between the door and doorjamb, where it would stay until someone left or entered the apartment. Hopefully Angela would invest in a good lock, and maybe some pepper spray. He turned back to the stairwell, and was just rounding the second floor when his cell phone began to buzz in his pocket. 

“Shit,” he swore, fumbling for a moment before pressing the answer button and holding the cell up to his ear. “False alarm, the guy was just a creepy stalker trying to leave love notes for some-” Amy cut him off. 

“Dean, shut up. Another person showed up not four minutes after you entered the building. Sherlock followed him, but we haven’t heard anything. You haven’t seen anyone?” Dean felt a shudder of dread creep up his spine. 

“No, I haven’t,” he said, speeding up his pace down the stairs, “Shit, shit, shit. Did he go in through the same door I did? Did he take your gun?” 

“No, and no,” Amy answered in a small voice. 

“Son of a bitch,” Dean spat, “I’ll find him. You guys stay out there. Together!” He hung up before she answered, and hurried down to the basement where he’d entered. Nobody else had been on the main stairs, so the back entrance was the best place to start. _Just my luck_ , he thought to himself, _my first hunt in another country and I lose our detective._


End file.
